The Hidden Companionship of Sadness

I remember my little boy soak tub

when bubbles

would ricochet off tiles

with pop and circumstance.

I remember the summer choir

of crickets

whose notes would take flight 

and soar in formation

in honor of 

the death of the day.

I remember the sound of my dad

laughing at Jackie Gleason 

like someone was tickling his feet

transmitted from 

faraway living room island

to the shores of my crib

which for a one brief second

erased his blackboard 

and made him forget 

the chalk of everyone

he had lost

and still ached for 

just like I did

whenever mommy said

good night 

and would disappear into holy foyer light

perhaps forever.

Despite the fact that my job then

was the pursuit of happiness

I was always acutely aware

even at two

of the hidden companionship of sadness

which lived in the secret places of

grown-ups

who, at the end of each day,

from behind the grieving hush of closed bedroom doors,

would slip out of their work costumes and

life masks,

their party hats and pretty dresses

look out into the night sky

and wonder 

is this it?

 

You learn the art of living with pain 

not when you are old 

but when you are very young

because it is everywhere

in mommy’s ash tray

in daddy’s headaches

in haunted photo album faces 

and in grandma’s nails 

which she gnawed like a trapped ferret

while she watched American Bandstand

as she tried to dodge 

the rain drops of insanity 

until she was drenched.