Just a Little Bit Broken

My heart hurts. It feels just a little bit broken. These past few weeks have seen the reemergence of my faith. These past few weeks have felt like the body of a neon yellow arrow pointing me towards something I can’t yet see.

My father has pancreatic cancer. When I say these words out loud, everything inside of me moves and I feel closer to my mother than I ever have before. Closer and farther all at once—manifesting as quaking. I swallow the spit that pools under my tongue and know that I am swallowing something else too because my neck muscles strain under the force.

What isn’t known is the weight upon us. My parents will go see someone, probably a group of someones, who will know or not know and tell them or not tell them so. Then, I will be called and I will be pulled into action or stayed for the moment.

I think about them all of the time. I pray and pray and pray. I try not to talk about it, but I’m no good at stoicism so it leaks out all the time.

I try to find joy, but I just feel confused. I read and read and read, but the more I read the more I stop reading—the more I just see words

then letters

then symbols

then black dots on white with everything in our apartment, everything in my life, behind it.

 

And I try not to be harsh, but it feels like generalities and platitudes are all people have to offer to my other, much less significant questions and pains. How can I share this with anyone? Not now. Not yet.

And I try to see past that into their intentions, but I’m tired and my heart hurts and everything feels just a little bit broken.

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