By Dana Staup
Sometimes I imagine I am on a reality tv show in my backyard. Ratings counted only by occasional glances from neighbor’s eyes… bearing indifferent witness to the life being played out right before them.
They hear the same sad songs and watch as I break things and put them back together. The everyday drama that grief demands in order to be temporarily pacified. Bearing it as gracefully as wisdom allows… for as long as it allows. Until finally it becomes a muddy memory and easily put on a shelf for later or never.
I don’t hold back… it’s the only place on this planet where, for now, I am free and I imagine I’m an unwilling reality TV Star for those who’d pause long enough to watch a scene.