Those days when weeks feel like years.  Sadness sits with me and I review everything that I have done in my life in the middle of my life. The past is not my best period.

Sometimes I reach way back and feel ok. With the exception of the late library books and the time I lost one shoe. When I was a kid, I very specifically remember feeling that I had one black mark at all times. Always in trouble.

But there were ground bologna sandwiches at the beach and campfires and fall leaves. With the exception of Mad Magazine, my best childhood memories were in Nature. No people, no first kiss, no dance recital, beats the memory of the first time I saw pine trees planted in a row to make a uniformed forrest.

But now my bones are heavy. Moving around in them is harder than it was.  I’ll just stay here with the 5 half started chores looking at me. Maybe my marrow is denser than usual because I haven’t had my prescribed 16 oz of water. Maybe I have cancer.

I spend a lot of time thinking of when and how Kathleen will die. Or will she just get so fat and miserable and diabetic that her feet get amputated. Or is that me.

A therapist once told me a story about a woman client who was kidnapped and raped with her toddler in her car. It was intended to make me feel what? Shame at being depressed at being poor at being scared?

I’m not poor anymore, and I’m much less scared but I am heavier. It’s the burden of being alive. Heavy with memories, heavy with knowing more people and their sadness. Even other’s happiness looks sad if you think about them having cancer at that moment and not even knowing,