I might have spoken too fast.
I might have taken rabbit trails on my train of thought.
I might have had water coming from my eyes for no apparent reason.
I might have seemed anxious. And awkward
Because I needed. Too much. At that time.
Because behind my face all of the things were falling apart, to the groan of enormous death.
The school secretary puckered in recrimination for not doing better at getting my daughter to school on time when I could barely face the weight of another day after the death of a child.
The pastor had no time to listen.
Others were surprised why it was “still being talked about” months later.
And it was decided, whether consciously or not.
That I was not delightful to be with.
And it was true. I was scared.
I was fearful. Of rejection. Of what might happen next. Of what was broken, but I didn’t know it yet. Or what would imminently break if I didn’t run to intervene.
And so, it was decided our kids wouldn’t play together. Or celebrate birthdays together.
My invitations would go unanswered.
And cascades of apologetic reasons, I would quickly forgive, just to forget the thorn of it. And when my daughter would ask, I would go gentle, shrugging and blowing it off.
Though inside I smoldered with grief. And anger because my daughter was cut off.
Because I knew I spoke too fast.
I took rabbit trails on my train of thought.
And there was water coming from my eyes, for no apparent reason.
And I was anxious. And awkward.
Years later, I leave this all here. And I move forward. Hopefully wiser.