“I have a bad feeling about what life is going to be like for our children,” I said.
We were sitting in the shade relaxing in the afterglow of chocolate chip cookies. Â She listened quietly as I struggled to explain my fears.
And it really was a struggle.
There’s a fine line I walk between simple cynicism and deep despair, and I know that the words that go along with either one of those are not words people want to listen to. So how do you talk about this stuff when most people can’t or won’t or just don’t want to listen to it.
She looked at me and said, “Well I don’t see why you feel that way.”
I wrestled with examples of what scares me, examples of what has convinced me that it isn’t going to be the same. Â And I wrestled with pulling together several threads that bang around in my head in the dark of nights. And just then, Trudy walked up.
She looked over at Trudy, and her grim face brightened, and she visible breathed a sigh of relief. Â She looked away from me and asked about the color of paint in the bedroom, liberated from the gloom that had descended on our shady spot and spoiled our chocolate chip euphoria.
I just can’t talk about this stuff. Â I can’t let it out.
