He would be the first to say he hates living here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And squished into the bedroom in the basement. Most of his stuff is packed in storage. He has had to share the kitchen with us. And the sofa. And our car. For the last six months.
The shower isn’t his either – it’s filled with girl stuff – fruity shampoo and conditioner and perfumed body wash. He stands outside the bathroom door, patiently waiting for his sister to come out. The pink razor pushes his soap off the shelf in the tub, and it slides down the river of bubbles towards the drain.
I would be the first to say I hate having him here. After all, he’s an adult. And out of work. And his stuff is all over the basement. And the kitchen. And the sofa. And the car. For the last six months.
But I don’t hate having him here. I just hate the fact that he had to be here.
And now I hate the fact that he’s leaving.
And most of the time I can take it.
Most of the time.
Except for that time where I cry two minutes of tears … every two days.
Because he’s leaving. And because he’s been through so much. And because I wonder when it will end. And when the door will be opened for him.
The door to success and happiness.
My dear aunt once told me, “Let go and let God”. What comforting wisdom. You have to assume that you’ve given all the advice you can give, you’ve given all the tools for living. You have to let go and let God.
And yes, there are occasional tears as you think of the distance. That time when you cry two minutes of tears … every two days.
1 year ago
