childcare

The afternoon took a somber turn, a gray shroud covering the blue blazes, children turning in their skins. The poetry of loss and distance, of the people who should somehow failing, worried hands that will always be a little too empty. Busy work and sickness strung out on wire and doubt. Asking nothing of those who have failed the tests of trust. Asking much of the placeholders that try to make holding back the flood an everyday thing. All the tears that burn, all the loss that will follow.

There are crimes that will not be resolved. There are losses that will never be recovered. You could look at the numbers and know the odds. You could look in their eyes and know that every percentage has a name. Nothing much that you ever do will change this. Even the best of us can not give enough to help. I walk in the door with my swagger and my empty, and bring a measure of calm. This might be a crime as well, a hole made out of habits, a wound that will weep out into the rest of a life. I walk in the door knowing I might as well turn around and leave.

The night leaned in, leaving a hole for the moon to shine through. The drive home was safe and rapid. I made it up the drive way before midnight found me out. All the kids managed to smooth out what little bumps and bruises found them earlier. They were all in bed with their lights out early. No fights and few tears, and no setback that would settle on them hard. Tomorrow the day resets, and all the comedy and tragedy plays out again. I will walk in the door with my shock and my stories, and will make what I might of the day.