Little Things

Little things serve as reminders, even on the best of days. Perhaps that is what makes them the best of days, the bits and pieces and details, the tiny gravestones that mark the cracks. Never forget, say the little things. Those that forget are doomed to repeat.

There is a white stone on my desk on which is written, in impossibly tiny letters, the entire text of Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night. Next to that, another that simply says, "center".

There is a strange look that wafts through my husband's eyes whenever I make a thoughtlessly casual comment about killing myself over one thing or another, and a certain whipcord strength in our exchange of smiles. Occasionally, we touch when there is no need for it, just to assure one another that we are still there.

There is a joy in day-to-day living that had never been there before, springing up vinelike to stretch to the sky, look, it says, look at everything, just look. And there is a voice that murmurs in the background, ocean against shore, you are worthwhile, you have always been worthwhile. 

And another that replies in undercurrent, and fuck all the rest of it.