I walked home this afternoon through an appropriately-timed summer rain, suddenly feeling made of glass. My shoe slipped off mid-stride, went sliding down the sidewalk ahead of me, and my stockinged foot landed in a puddle that crept slowly up my leg as I squished down the street. The only way to avoid shattering into a million pieces was to laugh.
Too often, it seems, those are the only two choices.
I've been pretty sadly used this year by people who are not out to harm but are sometimes shockingly indifferent to doing so. Some of it I brought upon myself and some of it I did not, and my heart grows a little bit bigger in diameter each time, trying to become more adventurous instead of more tender and afraid. Trying to keep the hull of my ship free of barnacles and the floor free of sharp me-glass, to avoid slicing any of us open, to hoard all of the good parts like a squirrel and not be poisoned by the bad parts. It's always a fight, a million tiny heartbreaks.
My world keeps getting turned upside down, but don't worry about me; I took the time to glue everything down in anticipation of such events. It just takes a little while to remember how to find my way around, to remember how to interpret all the hobo signs I have scribbled on the walls.
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