Like that time I was nursing my father down the path of Alzheimer’s and I heard Christopher Reeve’s son CROON about the fact that his father had been able to move his little finger on his own.
Pain is relative, I thought. Pain is that thing that gathers us up and places us into a hollowed out crevice where we realize that all the agony is the same.
Like the mother, on the news, who can’t find her child. Like my best friend who wishes every day that her son’s leukemia won’t return. Like the man who lives, crumpled, outside of the library who always asks for money.
It’s all relative, I suppose. It’s all that rumbles in our minds and our hearts—that keeps us looking into each other’s eyes and hearing each other’s words, reminding us there’s an inch between our one and only struggles and theirs.
Yours In Restless Wonder,
Thelma the Thinker