I should know better by now

Walking through the lobby of my office this afternoon, I hid the tears behind black sunglasses, thankful that my latest purchase was larger than the shades I'd chosen in years past. George, the security guard who usually engages me in a few moments of small talk as I exit the glass-enclosed lobby each afternoon, was distracted by a man in charcoal suit leaning on his desk with both elbows. I managed to avoid eye contact with quick steps and a strategically-timed hair flip.

As the revolving door turned me through to the too perfect sunshine of the too perfect evening, I muffled a sob. Fifty-four. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. I focused on counting my steps and keeping a straight face as I passed the flower-laden meditation pond. When my foot hit the second step in the parking garage stairwell, my vision blurred to blindness, and I had to stop and wipe away the tears before moving on.

In the safety of my car, the sobs flowed freely as I leaned on the steering wheel for support like a distraught heroin on the silver screen. I collected myself enough to set out for home, but the tears didn't cease.

I cried for a potential loss in the fast-approaching future. For the lack of certainty in my career choices. For the absence of a shoulder on which to let my tears. But, primarily, for the things I endured in the Southern Homestead. For the scars I still carry. The scars I fear I will always carry. For the fast-approaching revisitation of the crime scenes. For the silence. For the lack of closure. For the things I fear are happening now and feel I can do nothing about.

Belle: (to Roommate less than 48 hours ago) I'm not typically one who drinks to drown my sorrows.

And, yet, tonight I drove at least two miles* out of my way during rush hour to purchase the whiskey necessary to do just that. For the last three hours I've been catching up with old friends and gardening and cooking and blogging and hanging out with my ferocious hunter of a cat. But I've primarily been working on making that whiskey disappear. And I've nearly accomplished my goal.

Oh, the weekend at the Southern Homestead should be the best ever.

* I'm sure there's a liquor store closer than that, but I've been on the outs with liquor lately and haven't noticed the actual location. How sad is that?