Big Feelings
Late at night my chest cracks open and all my unwanted thoughts about death pour in. The panic builds until I leap out of bed and creep silently into my children’s rooms. I stare at their small bodies, curled up and tangled, soft mouths slightly open. Little chests rise and fall, a hand twitches. Velvet cheeks, rosy with proof of life. For now. How am I supposed to live with what I know? Someday they’ll die. Someday I’ll die. The veil that usually hangs in a thick swath over the terrifying portrait of my own mortality has swung aside, and I can’t seem to tug it back into place. When I believed in heaven, I was able to deny how scared I really was. I choked down the bile every time it rose and pretended the taste didn’t linger, bitter in my mouth. Now nothing stops the guttural fear from retching out of me. I walk down the street and I want to scream at everyone—“Don’t you get it?!” There’s no opt-out form, no box to check that lets me say not just yet, thank you. I can’t hold anybody
