“They always look so vulnerable,” says Warrick, holding a school photo of an abducted child.
“That’s because they are,” replies Grissom
My mind goes back to Glastonbury when I was about that old, and I think about how defended I had to be, even by then. Adultified early, as they say, learning to defend yourself.
My father, well, you know that his prostate cancer is back and to the bone. And I wish he would talk about his feelings.
Instead, we both take care of my mother, and know not to really open up. She gets willful at night, tossing the refigerator to find her cheese, she gets upset when she realizes it’s her girth that causes the pin pricks on her hips, not understanding that the wheels rubbing on the sides are costing me pain too as I push her though the mall.
I’m not sleeping well, feeling the need to stay tight and defended.
I am so vulnerable, but my defenses bristle, and I don’t look it.
And that leaves me lost.