Twist it, Soften it

In the park, I talk to a man who doesn't speak very good English about the missing plane. He is very upset. He is Filipino. He knows someone who knew someone on the plane. He is worried about orphaned children. I agree with him, there is not much that is sadder than orphaned children.

Burning Sand is with me. Monica is at work. I am in charge. I am mad at Loving Hand. Loving Hand never stops asking for things. With a look, with a bark, with an insistent paw. Loving Hand can stay home and demand things from an empty house.

Anger has been welling up within me lately. I cannot find its source, and I cannot get it out in healthy ways. If I am not reasonably strong-willed at a particularly anger-filled moment, I take it out on the dogs. I am sad about that, and racked with guilt. I am feeling angry, and I am feeling weak.

Sometimes, I imagine Tony's unborn children. It does something weird to the anger. It twists it, it softens it, but it is still ugly. 

The Filipino man enjoys Burning Sand. Did I sit next to him, or did he sit next to me? I don't remember. 

"I am trying to stop drinking," he says. He is tired of it, just tired of it. He looks tired. He looks young and old. 

"I am trying to stop being lonely," I say. 

"One day at a time," he says. 

At home, Loving Hand will have pooped somewhere. I will get home and I will be upset, and I will yell. Loving Hand and Burning Sand will wrestle and I will yell again, and I will wonder where all this anger came from. 

In spring, I tell the man, we will all be reborn. I almost believe it.