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A cake platter after the cake is gone. And no one even told you there was cake.
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Firing a Nerf missile across cubicle-land . . . and no one fires back.
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A newly planted oak tree—with shiny steel supports, and a green beaver-proof boot—snapped in two.
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Leather-bound books smartening up the decor in a crowded furniture store.
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Forgotten Valentine’s roses in an empty house, in May.
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Almost anything by Phoebe Bridgers.
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“G’night, Chris! Don’t stay too late. Lock up when you leave.”
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Two-year-old Hannah, strapped in her stroller, coughing and whimpering in the waiting room: “Oh! Medicine!”
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The sound of a master oboist. And the silence when it’s over.
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Atheism. For a believer.
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Your mother, crying in another room.
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Alphabetization. Especially on a Saturday night.
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The death of Chingachgook’s only son, Uncas, in The Last of the Mohicans.
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Moldy bread. Unless it’s Wonder Classic White.
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The last piece of Halloween candy at the bottom of your pillowcase. And it’s a Mary Jane.
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Dining alone by the seaside, next to newlyweds.
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An owl in the night, and no one to tell about it.
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Your sadness here.
August 31, 2020
Sadness Illuminated
To accompany a book of photos (but the photos never come).
