I think about you often. I am drawn to you almost daily. What you say matters to me. I want to be liked, I want to be listened to, I want to be heard. Sometimes I get that satisfaction. More often, I feel I can’t keep up with the conversation. Or don’t have the energy to.

You make me laugh, you make me cry, you engage me. You have been a part of my life, and I’ve shared my life with you. It’s been a positive relationship for the most part. Though I sometimes feel things are coming at me too fast.

I don’t like the anger. I don’t like the blame. I don’t like the fighting.

I do like to argue, to articulate my thoughts, express my feelings and views. I can be vulnerable at times, coy or sarcastic other times. I am grateful for the room to be many things.

Sometimes things get bad, feelings get hurt. Some of my friends have told me to leave. I’ve stuck around.

I can’t quit you, Facebook.

Not yet.

Grief’s little brother

I think sadness is grief’s little brother, popping up unannounced, at inopportune times, sometimes loud and ugly, sometimes whisper quiet.

Grief is stone, seemingly always there, strong, heavy, unmoving, wise. I suppose, like stone, it wears away slowly, its rock face getting smoother over time, changes happening slow enough to go unnoticed.

Sadness comes and goes, child-like in its fleeting nature. Alone, sadness is distinct from laughter, separate from joy. But they play together with grief.