I didn’t know if I should say I was scared. I didn’t know if I should say I was relieved.
I didn’t know how to say that I was nervous even though I know I’m fine.
Yeah, I know…
I didn’t know how to tell him that as I read “On the Rainy River,” all I could think about was how it was a metaphor for our lives – the teachers. (Am I reading too much into this?) We’ve been drafted to fight a fight that wasn’t ours in the making. There will be casualties. There could be nightmares. There will be sweet relief for those that make it; there may be twinges of guilt when savoring that sweetness. (No, I’m not.)
I didn’t know how to tell him that I had to leave the gym because I started to cry.
I didn’t know if I should tell him that when I got home, I sat in the car and continued to cry. I cried hard. I cried like choking crying when the crying gets caught in your throat crying. I cried for how sad I was, how grateful I was, how criminal I was for feeling so grateful.
Just tell him. He won’t feel bothered.
Yeah, I know…
I didn’t. I ran instead (just like O’Brien). I ran, but then I couldn’t run anymore. I was tired.
So, I told him, and it felt awful and purifying at the same time. I dumped it on him, loads, piles, buckets, and he let it wash over him. He listened, patiently, soaked to the bone in a concoction of my emotions, but unflinching nevertheless.
You’ll be ok. We’ll be ok.