Let me try again.

Last week I felt pressed down.  Last week people I love shattered and broke and some tried to leave.  All while days shortened and afternoons darkened and the cold that had swept in so suddenly settled on down in this tiny town.  The wind blew through everything and everyone.  Children fought on playgrounds, shoved and pushed and yelled.  The children steamed.  Drivers in cars honked and squealed and shook their fists.  Coffee lost its magic.  The weekend crawled.  But most importantly, people broke.

This week has been a different sort of sad.  The country is breaking now into anger over color and justice and I couldn't help but shudder when I saw the headlines, saw the photos of looting and weeping and dignity lost.  This week the people I love are beginning to mend and pleas for prayer are replacing the silence but still, this week feels hard.  The children are cooling.  They are taking turns at the slide, they are no longer snarling savages. The driving is slowing with the snow and the ice.  Coffee is once again reason enough to slide out of bed.  Still, this week feels hard.

Because last week was a reminder: we break.  We try to leave.  We feel so completely thin, so worn, that we think we might be about to disappear.  We think we might want to.

I had forgotten.