My Sunday, postscript

I read a story in the Newton County (AR) Times once which described a local personage as having stepped into a depression, about which I have previously written.  I envisioned the individual sitting morosely at the local coffee shop, his head  sunk down on his open palms, until I read the rest of the article and discovered that he had been walking in a pasture and twisted his ankle.

For a long time thereafter, we referred to a sad day as one in which we stepped into a depression.  Not to make light of real depression, of course; just to make light of a difficult experience, momentary, fleeting, and manageable.

Today, I realized that I had stepped into a depression and that I had begun to sink into the muck of the quick sand in its recesses.  I snatched my pocketbook and tablet and raced out to the car, desperate for distraction.  Heading north on Holmes, I turned west on 59th, thinking of frozen yogurt and good air conditioning, two solaces that aren’t too fattening or unrealistic.

And there, at the intersection of what-ifs and what-is, I saw Logan, the five-year-old who charmed me at the Public Library yesterday, walking with his mother.  She could only have been his mother, with her olive skin, black pony tail, and sturdy legs.  I let them cross, then rolled down the window and said, “Hello, Logan!”

His mother turned, and Logan did as well.  A smile dawned across his face but confusion overtook hers.  One does not expect one’s pre-K child to have adult friends unknown to you.  I hastened to explain that I had met Logan with his grandmother.  Then she smiled, too, and Logan said, “You saw me again!” which I had promised him I would.  “I’m Monica,” said his Venezuelan mother.  “Corinne,” I told her, and then the car behind me honked.  “Goodbye, Logan!” I called.  “Have a nice walk with your mother!”  Logan beamed, and waved; and I waved back.  I could see the edges of the depression into which I had stepped falling beneath  me as I lifted myself and continued on, to the frozen yogurt and my writing project.  My heart filed with joy, though I felt tears flow down my cheeks which I could not explain.


One thought on “My Sunday, postscript

  1. Cindy Cieplik

    This little Logan and you have a real connection! Thank you for reminding me that if you step-in to a temporary funk, you can also step- out! Love and light to you my Friend!


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