How are you doing?

For the umpteenth time, we’re asked

“How are you doing?”

For the umpteenth time, I ask the same thing. Every so often I shift the question to, “How is today?” I can’t always summon words for how I am feeling. How can I burden someone else with that line of questioning. Sometimes I don’t pick up the phone, the people I love not even capable of giving me comfort. I’ve been leaning on cats, crafts, and carbs. None speak back. I keep praying, but I always prayed and I get resentful when people all of a sudden tell me when and how I should pray. And what if you pray and the answer is still no? A beautiful companion of mine told me that no is indeed an answer. Then do we abandon everything we have ever believed? I mustn’t no matter how strong the urge. Prayer changes me, not the outcomes. I will cling to that. Life is eternal; love is eternal.

Some well meaning outlets tell me what I should do, or buy, how I should be. She innocently tells me to turn on a concert on tv. I snap in outrage because I don’t want to watch a concert. I want to sit in yet another pair of pants without buttons and listen to the rain. The sound of the phone makes me irate. I fumble with my twine. I keep making things so I don’t have to feel anything. I want to stop being gloomy with James when he gets home from work. I should be a beacon of some sort of light. It is my role, it is what I have chosen for myself. Light others’ candles even at the expense of your own.

I call him seven times a day and listen to his voicemail message the 6 times he doesn’t pick up. “Hello this is John, leave a message.” It is music. It is medicine. Writing this tears stream down my face. He is the best man I have ever known and I can’t help ease his suffering. I can’t massage his legs or split a bagel with him. I can’t make her feel better either, a wedge of fear driving us apart. We are at the mercy of a force that doesn’t give a shit about how things were. How will things be?

I worship my morning coffee. I watch a Toaster Cake sizzle on the griddle and affix a banana in the shape of a heart. I methodically eat it standing alone in the kitchen, savoring every nibble. I don’t sit down these days. I stand, or walk, and keep busy fearful of what is on the other side of busy. We walk up the tallest hills in our town. I feel ashamed that I enjoy the solitude and that I am grateful for the rest, a break from the runaway wheel I was on. My books don’t have the answers, nor do the glasses of wine. Sleep comes thankfully. I wake and feed the cats. I don’t have a baby to rock; God willing someday I will.

How are you doing?