September: When Joy Slips Through My Hands
The month began with colors. The warmth of home, the taste of my mother’s cooking, and the joy of being wrapped in the comfort of familiarity. My heart was filled, as if a long drought finally met the rain. Yet, just like water slipping through the cracks of dry soil, that fullness didn’t last. The joy evaporated too soon, leaving me wondering: What escaped me this time?
September was a carousel of clinic visits, circling round and round until I lost count. Perhaps it was the stubborn weather, or perhaps my body was simply tired. When my child fell ill, my nights lost their stars, my meals their flavor. And as dawns blurred into dusks, I too was pulled into that cycle of sickness. My husband, frail as he is, was not spared either.
They say every wound has its cure. But what medicine is there for the cracks inside the heart? The psychologist assures me there are ways to heal, yet I hesitate at the door. My feet pause at the threshold, not stepping in, perhaps fearing that behind the kind smile lies judgment. My emotional vessel, once brimming after I returned from home, now feels as if it has a leak I cannot find. It empties faster than I can fill it.
This September felt unremarkable, as if the calendar flipped without leaving footprints. Long days stretched wide, yet when I looked back, my hands were empty. What worth is there in time if it passes without fruit?
Maybe the fevers and coughs were only shadows cast by something deeper. I have been quick to flare, easy to break, fragile as thin glass. And in one moment of weakness, I did what I thought I never could, I let my frustration spill onto the little soul who clings to me most. Like a bird caged, I resented his nearness. And then I remembered: I am the cage, and I am the shelter. He knows no other place to land but me.
They say, “Better to walk alone than in the wrong company.” But what if you walk side by side, yet your soul still feels adrift? Perhaps that is what this month has been teaching me, that sometimes, even when hands are held, the journey feels solitary.