Tonight for dinner: comfort food. B-level
comfort food. Cereal, but not the chocolate
reserved for emergencies. I only feel mildly
sorry for myself, not for any reason so much
as that I’m alive, and people who should be
aren’t, and why do I have to get the best
of everything? I’d be fine with a solid floor
to sleep on, a jacket to keep me warm. A few
million dollars for my kids — I want to give them
everything except problems. On Tisha b’Av I
forgot not to thank G-d for shoes and sight,
not because I wasn’t grateful but because I was —
I didn’t know if I’d still have them by mincha,
didn’t know if I’d still remember to say thanks.
Better to get it out of the way. Better to live
in the moment. There must be a medium
of hope and despair, some soft-rock happiness
that will get me to my next joy. Maybe it’s thinking
more joy will come. Maybe it’s being okay
that this is what I have.
