By CL Bledsoe
I told my therapist I see my daughter
on the weekends. The rest of the week:
“You know those solar-powered dancing
flowers you can get for your car dashboard?
I’m like that.” My whole life, really. Waiting.
“She’s lucky to have you,” she said. That
night, I lay in bed until the morning, my brain
racing. At work, everyone was angry with
each other. It looked like rain, and I needed
to go to the DMV. I planned to call my
daughter that night, but what would I say?
This world will break your heart with how
boring and stupid it is. What I want to say
is hang in there. The weekend is coming.