Today, She Let Me In

Up she comes with shoulders slumped and head down.  She sits down. One of those days.

I commit the mortal sin and take the quickest route to failure, again, saying: "Honey, what's wrong?"

No eyes. No sound. No Nothing. More prying produces hidden tears and snuffles.

I'm failing. I don't have the right words to help. We've been here before many times.

Why can't we get past this private pain, a pain so deep and silent that I cannot pretend to understand?

The phone rings and the unexpected results in a car ride. I invite her along. Now a captive audience, I remind her how much her Dad and I love her. That we would do anything for her.

As she looks out the window, the tears roll. We talk about bad dreams. Of loss. The grief of what's lost coupled with a gripping fear of losing more is JUST.TOO.MUCH.

Finally after so many years, she is finding words for those tumultuous feelings locked inside.

And she let me in. For a moment. Into the private pain of her world of grief and loss that I respect but will never completely understand. Because it didn't happen to me.

 Today our bond was strengthened.

She trusts me a little more than before.

This work we do, the dance we dance, is a lifelong journey.

I'm in and I hope to stay.

Tomorrow? 

Will be another day.