In like a parade
the dreaded shadow comes;
not a parade for which children
flock to the streets, gathering the offerings
of beauty queens and Santa
but one in which innocents
fly under the covers
hugging their pillows tight chanting
not this time not this time not again.
It's the boots of an army,
heard far-off approaching,
the rumble of a truck
set to repossess your wares,
the snap of a lock,
the whipping-master is home.
Lo, you tried to prepare,
stocking up the larder,
squirreling away the liquid
sunshine of tomatoes and
spiritual food: how a blanket,
under an August spread of city-stars,
sounds when skin is
rubbed against it over and over.
You thought you'd be spared --
but at the first touch of thunder
the picnic is done.
First round the corner then down the street then here
ever darkening the door.
As adults we abuse ourselves more -- so melancholy and despondency seem to hit us more. But we are not the only ones to feel it. Our children suffer seasonal depression too -- they just manifest it in different ways.
One day the RebelAngel is peppy and flitting around the house, hunting down her basketball shoes... the next she's angry, lazy and saying i just feel so sad, so sad... Unlike us adults, though, she doesn't have the vocabulary to recognize it for what it is. It's just a scary, ugly thing looming from around some dark corner.
Were i only able to take away her hurt, to rip this shroud of clouds off the sky and let the sun and warmth in. I would wallow in it with her -- both of us lying in the grass on the side of the house, paying no heed to the dog walkers, the speedy delivery trucks, the stares of our well-meaning nosy neighbors...