helpless heart

My son keeps me up to date on his struggle to adjust to the betrayal he has recently suffered. Today I am just confused, he will say or he will admit to having rushes of grief or anger or resentment. Some days the overwhelming prospect of packing up a life overcomes it all. Some nights he lies awake, imagining...

I listen to him vent, earphones in, while I paste and cut and arrange and glue. His pain moving through me to be woven into the patterns. I make pretty collages of paper, botanicals, paint and pain. And I can't make it better. The words no Mother ever wants to say. We are programmed to make it better.

Friday is the 1st day of a new show. I like old shows. I like knowing where to park and what kind of space to expect. Where the bathrooms are, if there are plugs for our lights. I like knowing the people who run it. New shows are filled with questions. Everything goes slower, feels awkward.

My work is going slow, too. My mind wanders, I am preoccupied by sadness and impotence.

It will be good to be done, to be on my way, to be of help.

I fill my boxes with product, counting out how many of each, is it enough, will they sell, will he get through this, how can I help.

The route to the venue is stored on the GPS. The load in instructions are in my folder. If only life was like that. Printed directions and a woman with a slightly British accent telling you "turn left, turn right. Recalculating".

I'm going to tell my son that one. He is recalculating. Maybe he will chuckle. That would be a good step, maybe make it a little better...