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Messy tears that leak out when friends go to the bathroom in coffee houses

in the pauses between distractions

driving

or standing still in the check-out line.

But worse still is at night

when the tears dry up unexpectedly

like the tide receding silently to the sea from whence it came.

I watch my breath dissipate into the frigid darkness

swirling in perfectly chaotic rivulets

in the warm yellow glow of a streetlamp

magnified by the glimmering snow heaped all around

and it's then that an awful numbness sets in

and demands wine.

I'm sure the late-shift workers at McDonalds

have seen much worse

than the shameless, blotchy, snotty

ragged, reeking mess

that enters periodically to order coffee, McChickens, and Breakfast McMuffins

before returning to a mysterious van in the parking lot

that has already been parked there various days.

Much worse in their lobby

much worse in their own lives

(perhaps...)

Could the same be said of the morning shift?

...in any case

their indifference is comforting to me

and I am content to mistake it for understanding.

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But in the horizon

beyond the great aching chasm that has split the earth in front of me

there is a deep rumbling

a great yellow storm brewing

warm

familiar

electric

threatening it could fill that chasm in no time at all.

And so the drops begin to fall

fast and fat.

:   :   :   :   :   :   :   :   :

"Marie, I'm so proud of you."

Six words I had no idea could pack such a deep, aching importance.

They echo in a silent kitchen, as I shiver

or sniffle

in the brisk morning air.

"I can’t think of too many things more difficult to do than what you did."

Words I never even had a chance to miss

they arrived before I could long to hear them.

Like some divine, cosmic mother

rushing to hug me tightly

in that stunned pause

that all toddlers seem to share

between a fall

and the realization that it hurts.

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A bed with a heater where I can sleep all day if I want.

A claw-footed bathtub where the hot water lets me forget

that my cheeks are still wet with tears.

Food and friends

forgiveness and tolerance

distractions, laughter, and karaoke.

:   :   :   :   :   :   :   :   :

A house where I am very simply allowed to be.

Sleepy

exhausted

sometimes silent

sometimes gabby

usually drunk.

I sit on the couch

and friendly faces float in and out

not wondering

not judging

not asking anything of me at all.

I watch them make plans to go ice-skating

and listen to raucous groups of them returning from a frosty night out

and I am allowed to enjoy the prosaic comfort

as random combinations of them

in various turns

heap onto the couches all around me

after long shifts

or days spent in the snow

chattering

popping in a movie

baking cookies

barely taking notice of me

unless I ask

and it feels like the world's least intrusive

and most understanding

bear hug.

Here, I am allowed to simply exist.

And most nights

I am aggressively tucked-in

with a comically colossal bundle of blankets

(nearly against my will)

a glass of water just within reach

hinting that it is for me.

The gentlest of prods

the slightest of whispers

murmuring that if I wanted to love myself

just a little

...it would be okay.

And a glass of water might be a good way to start

:   :   :   :   :   :   :   :   :

Nowadays

I find that the same aching lump

still rises in my throat

when I think back to those months.

But the pain has become somehow indistinguishable

from the stinging salve

of the abundance of love that was heaped upon me

(even unconsciously so).

So warm

contracted

tightly buzzing

and I remember

that as my eyelids drifted closed

the benign suggestion

of drinking a glass of water

was just enough

to get me through the night

in peace.