The Hidden Companionship of Saddness
I remember my little boy soak tub when bubbles would ricochet off tiles with pop and circumstance. I remember the sleepy time choir of late August 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 Sid and Imogen 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...