Driving on the Outskirts of Sadness

It's dark out, no other lights but my headlights. I turn on to the on-ramp, my headlights guiding my way. I look up to see what's coming and it's nothing but darkness. I look down to where the headlights hit the road and see the white line curve to the right. I look up again to see what's coming, darkness.  

I'm driving on the outskirts of sadness. A wonderful holiday book-ended with the loss. Not my own personal loss but loss for friends. I look up again to see what's coming, darkness. I spiral into a whirlwind of what if, what if those were my parents, my brother. What if that happened to my husband. The fear is like a patch of ice on the road, I hit it and slip uncontrolled. I can't see where this path is taking me, my headlights have yet to uncover the white lines of guidance. I haven't yet experienced this kind of loss, the kind that is earth shattering-ly sudden. The kind that breaks your heart for years. That is path is still not lit but I'm lost in the darkness of what if's

I look down to where the headlights hit the road and see the white line curve to the right. I see where I am going. I am going to the right. It doesn't matter what happens past the darkness, not yet anyways. What matters is in front of me. It's in the light. The now.

I put my phone away, I sit down for dinner. I listen and share. I play a game. I hug my parents extra tight. I send silent prayers of thanks because the people I love are safe. I'm choosing to lend support where I can. To stay in the light. The path is lit as far as I need it to be. I see that NOW is in front of me. 


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