Something's happening here

[carose59]

There is a thing happening, and it is very bad and it is happening to me because it's spring
and it's spring
and it's always spring when the bad things happen.
My mother didn't die in the spring, she waited for summer, but
she went into the cage of pain and unidentifiable sounds.
She took the final step away from being my mother
away from being my mother
away from me.
It could even have happened today.

And, of course, Pat, Pat, who died on the anniversary of the day we met
and that was in the spring
in the spring when I'm already roiled up and feeling too much.
She came into my life like a Thunderbird and roared away with me and then
27
years
later she
sank
into the mist
and left
me
alone.

But that is not the end.

Sometime back something happened—
I don't know what—
but it's like my skin was peeled off, leaving my soul even more exposed to the tiny things that happen in a normal day
and it hurts
it hurts
it hurts
every time something happens—
to me,
to someone else,
to imaginary people who don't matter, don't exist, are not real
I am overwhelmed with pain
and anger
and pain.
I can barely tolerate narrative because there is virtually no narrative without unkindness somewhere in it.
And I don't know how to escape without a story.
It's like trying to sail across the ocean without a boat. Or wind.

And as I announce—incrementally—my plan to leave this job, the people telling me they'll miss me . . . baffle me.
What?
Why?
I do not feel missable.
I barely feel here.
If I woke up in the morning and I were gone, would I even notice?
It doesn't

seem

like

it.

I don't suppose I can really blame spring for all this, but, really spring is not to be trusted.
Nothing so beautiful is.