Wreck

by Catherine Newman

Brains look so robustly meaty in photographs, don’t they? All of that rubbery pink tubing, like your skull is filled with hot dogs. But mental health is as fragile as a soufflé.

“You carried some of it, and because of that, I could lay some of it down.” I cried then. That’s the dream, of course—that your care relieves a burden from your beloveds. I picture it so literally: helping Willa out of her massive backpack of trouble and sliding it onto my own shoulders to walk beside her.

We’ve been together thirty-five years, and we’re still getting to know each other. We do not take this project lightly. I mean—sometimes we do? But not always.

Grief is like the sound of the exhaust fan over the stove—a constant hum that recedes a little to the background over time, though you never get to turn it off.

“Sorry, everyone! Just being a bitch as per holiday tradition.”

What I should have done, I’m thinking transactionally, is blown him in the shower this morning—to bake a little flexibility and forgiveness into the day ahead.

“A little bit of yikes. You can visit with the fear, but don’t hire a van and move there.”