I took my sorrow and placed it firmly into a paper sack
the kind you get at very good grocery stores
a heavy one with wire wrapped handles
I knew it must be hidden so I wouldn’t be tempted
to take it out every so often and fondle it
worry it between the fingers of my heart
like those beads Indian women use to pray
I carried the bag by the handles
hoping I wouldn’t hear the sorrow rattling around inside
bumping against the confines of its paper prison
searching for its own escape from darkness
Into the garage I carried it
my eyes searching furtively for the perfect spot
like a dog who needs to bury a bone
a place where I could retrieve it if I must (but not to easily)
There, behind a box of Christmas lights, used only rarely now
or no, on the shelf next to the catcher’s mitt and car wash bucket
perhaps in the old fruit cellar
the warped wooden door shoved up against it
Panic rises, for there seems no safe place
so I stand holding this bag of sorrow, my palms moist on its handles
finally knowing it won’t be hidden.
When I was a young woman, I allowed sorrows to consume me. If I were sad, or worried, or upset, I couldn’t eat or sleep…I curled myself tightly into a ball and let life pass me by until I felt able to move forward again.
As I’ve aged, I’ve become more adept at compartmentalizing sorrow. It’s not completely hidden, it’s not ignored, it’s simply set aside in a secret place, so that I can go on with life.
Thank you all for your kind comments and all the positive thoughts you’ve sent our way this week.
It helps more than you know 🙂