I’m an Emotional Weeble Wooble
With every news alert that pops up on my phone, I feel like I might fall down.
I left her a message on her cell phone. But not really. I cannot call the number anymore because AT&T gave it to someone else. When my mother first died, I called her voicemail and left message after message. Most of them were me asking, “Mom, where are you?” and then crying into her voicemail. But I don’t leave her messages anymore. Maybe it’s for the best?
I don’t know what I would tell her these days. I am still ready to ask, “Mom, where are you?” and cry into her voicemail, but I would not want to burden her with what is happening in our country today. It Is hard for me to believe and I am alive. I won’t trouble my mom in death with all the right-wing craziness.
My mother was a person for whom the glass was always half full. Or as she saw it, her cup runneth over. I wish I could be that way.
For me, the cup sits on a wobbly table and depending on how I sit and shift and bump and depending on the position of the table and the light in the room and whether or not it’s a Wednesday, the cup is half full or half empty or overflowing or not even a cup but a dog bowl or a baby bottle or a hydro flask waiting to be taken to hot yoga. I can’t tell with any certainty how full or empty the cup is or if there is even a cup at all. It depends on whether the light is in my eyes or behind my head or if my dogs are sprawled out on their blankets in their dog beds.
It is hard to hold onto one feeling for very long. I am an emotional weeble wobble. I read the news and wobble. I turn on the TV and wobble. I get alerts to my phone and I wobble. It looks like I might fall down. I feel like I could. I certainly want to. The state of the state is enough to make anybody collapse in disbelief and despair. But then I right myself, sandals firmly planted on the ground. Every day, every news article, every moment, I remind myself that weebels wobble but they don’t fall down. I won’t either.