Two-Cry Minimum
Brooke Ethridge
I'm down to two cries a day. Mostly I like to lie on the floor and look at the ceiling fan, it's gentle whir reminding me that the world still spins. I slowly rub my belly, from top to bottom, both hands in unison, the repetitive motion soothing me and bringing me to the present. I'm still breathing.
How much the corona virus contributed to the disintegration of my 17-year relationship, we'll never know. I imagine explaining, "yeah, we just broke under the stress." Or more accurately, he broke under the stress, but it's not that simple. Years of unhappiness, depression, and anger surfaced even on the good days, the days when he could get out of bed and eat. We're learning new words from his stay in rehab: alcoholism, trauma, codependency.
Tearfully, he confesses that he doesn't know if I and the cats will be there when he gets out. I say I don't know either.
Brooke Ethridge grew up on a peanut farm in rural Alabama. She lives and works in New Orleans.
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