Drowning

I can’t recall the last time.

It happens often, sometimes everyday. It feels like drowning, though I’ve never drowned, so how do I know?

Somehow it makes sense: water washes us away.

I wish I could make them listen, understand. Care.

But I can’t; that is beyond my capabilities.

And I sometimes believe I knew what I was doing all along. Like the little boy who cries “Wolf!”, right? His mother comes, his father. There is no wolf. Every time, it is the same: nothing. So?

So then, one day: there IS a wolf. The boy cries: “Wolf!”

Like so many times before.

And his mother hears him; his father does, too. His grandmother, maybe his brother or sister; some of the neighbors. God.

But no one comes. Except God. And he might be the wolf. I don’t know.

What I DO know is this: the water washes everything away.

I wonder: if I call out, “Wolf! Help me!” Will anyone hear me? And, if they do, will they come?

I think not.

I wish it was easier. It never gets easier.

I wish I was not so alone. But, in the end, we are all of us alone.

And the water washes it all away.

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