It Has Been A Long Day

I want to take your gun away. You keep it on your wall. Maybe you've never entertained the idea of using it, but the gun is still on the wall and I want to take it away.

I want to eliminate the social stigma associated with men in therapy. It's time to put the focus on gluing the cracks in the cup before the glass shatters. We shouldn't have to sweep up the same shards over and over again.

You will spend this week shaking your head, trying to reverse the rotation of the earth with each turn of your neck, attempting to rewind time with each rotating demonstration of sadness.

Come dinnertime, you will make your five year-old's favorite meal. You won't mind when she spills her noodles on the floor- other people have cleaned up worse this week. Spilled milk and spaghetti aren't worth crying over, not today, these stains will wash out.

There are two funerals today for two boys who will never grow out of their Spiderman sneakers. This is only the beginning. The tears and burials and funeral lunches keep coming and all the roads are blocked with slow-moving black on black. At the wakes, everything is doll-sized. Lilliputian vases line the walls. The flowers can fit on the tip of your finger. You could cradle the caskets in your arms. The contents are so precious. These bodies, these babies, all you can say is "I'm sorry" and know that it will never be enough.

You will remember this day each night. You will sing your five year-old to sleep and climb in beside her. Time stops when you are sleeping. You like it that way.