I saw my grandbaby Vaughn this past weekend. His mom and dad brought him for a visit. They stayed at a hotel instead of my house; the house my daughter and son grew up in. There are so many reasons this fact hurts so much. All of them are emblematic of my failure as a mother; my failure to make a place my children would want to come back to. In my mind In my mind, this mirrors the uselessness of my failed life. I am 57 years old. Past the point of assuming things will change for the better beyond the next bend in the road. I'm arriving at the conclusion, and this is pretty much it; the sum total of things; how my life has turned out. And I don't want this life. I feel like I imagine I'd feel with a painful, terminal illness. If this is as good as it's going to get, I prefer not to do it anymore.
I am so in love with my grand child. He is purely, deeply beautiful. But I believe he'll be just fine without me. I don't do him justice with such a morose, distracted split mind. He deserves more than the splintered bits of my soul that remain alive. And today, it just doesn't feel as if there's anything I'll ever be able to do about that. And the most awful thing is I'm sure there are bad things still coming.
"Trouble in the air. I don't want it. But I've got to breath. It's
coming through the door,
behind the shadows that surround me when I sleep."