Post Traumatic

You'll have to excuse my pessimism.

I've bathed in death. The senescent skin cells fall into the basin and expose new facial wrinkles. My hair is thinning and strands of gray streak through the jet black landscape. The gulp of water streaming down the drain is the only interruption of a perfect mornings silence.

I've choked on grief. The tasteless globs of oatmeal stick in my throat. I barely awake from my reverie to notice the glass of juice sitting beside me. The windows reflect the last memories of undisturbed night.

I've exhaled desperation. The breaths escape and take form and then disappear into the air. The path from the parking lot to the hospital expands and contracts with the whim of my mood.

And I've stumbled on sadness. The land mines in the office are frequent and offer little space to negotiate in between.

So you'll have to forgive that I jump at the sound of an unexpected phone call or the pleading voice of my daughter.

She has woken up in the middle of the night.

It's probably just a headache.