Heaviness

There are the everyday tragedies: the little things. You say them like they’re the usual petty sadnesses, but the difference is in the echo. Not every sadness makes your heart heavy. Not for a week or a month or when you see their face on the train, but an always-heavy. You and your constituent components are just a little weightier now; the change is livable and permanent.

They sound like petty things, but they drag like a loose rope behind a sailboat. "My husband, who loves me dearly, doesn’t want to have sex with me anymore. My body does nothing for him. We cook and live and sleep side-by-side, but there's always an edge." The heaviness. "My brother, who is only a teenager, misses me. He’s growing up and I’m not there." The heaviness. "I didn't call my grandma on her eightieth birthday. I called her later, but she remembers." The heaviness.