Musée des Beaux Arts, W.H. Auden
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along...
My hands were stiff this morning with scattered marks of blood from hammer and nails and wood unexpectedly sharp. My back aches from reaching and stretching around a roof I built with someone who was worker and now also friend. A roof to share with a lover and always friend. I couldn't sleep last night, I read a thriller and was bored, but sometimes if I can wear out my eyes I can fall asleep. Some nights are not meant for sleeping. Last night the rain bucketed like it does in winter. A year ago rain sounded like disaster. Now it sounds like rain.
One of Colin's newborn sons has been diagnosed with hemophilia. That child and his brother will have a painful life, his parents will have days of fear and helplessness and nights of wondering why. I know this.
But I wonder when his father will finish the work he started. Perhaps for all my compassionate noises I'm just like those people who heard the splash Icarus made. They shrugged and kept hanging the laundry or moving stones out of the way. This isn't my tragedy. This is not my grief. This is not my struggle. Turn, look, turn away.
I am not who I thought I was. Or I am exactly who I thought I was.