On the way to work this morning, AC/DC’s Highway to Hell playing on the radio guided me into the asphalt parking lot. Hell? No, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been to Hell. I still visit for short periods every day but the heat has lessened a little. Most days. But some days it’s just the perfect storm of working a less than rewarding retail job, not enough sleep, not enough awake, financial problems, aches and pains,  guilt and frustration, and occasionally a frizzy hair day and the heat becomes worse than the hot flashes of the perimenopause I’ve entered.

I absorb the horrors on the news and bad news from friends and I feel the heat rise. I want to hide in our humble apartment. Chain the door, take off my pants, cuddle up together on the couch with happy tears. We put it back together as best we could. It’ll never be the same. I’m always going to be broken. I’m always going to be scared. But the heat goes on the back burner and we all keep going. Not just me. Not just bereaved parents. Not even the ones who seem to have it all together. (Pssst! Guess what? They don’t.)

We all keep going.