How Do You Live with a Broken Heart?

I suppose there are a million answers to that question.  I suppose that if you live to be over 40, there's probably a good likelihood that when you wake up in the morning, you are living with a broken heart.  If you've been divorced, lost a parent, lost a best friend, lost a child, lost a sibling, been kidnapped and pillaged. . .  the list goes on and on.  If you've been any of those things, then, well, I guess there is an answer to the question posed.

Me? Sometimes I just drive.  I get behind the wheel and drive until I get lost or until the car beeps that I'm almost out of gas.  Then I hit a button, find a gas station and head toward more gas or towards home, until the next time.

Sometimes I just cry.  That hasn't happened lately, and I find that if I allow it one time, then in a period of 24 hours, I've done it a hundred times.  So, I try not to let it happen too often. 

Sometimes I think it to death.  I think and think and analyze and think some more.

Then I drive.  Or I cry.  Or I hop in my bed and open a book that is bigger than the bible (11/22/63 by Stephen King - - - I can't fall asleep holding that book, it'll land on my head like a rock).  Books are good.  Books are real good when you want to escape.  .

Or I look up.

Sometimes I look up.

Sometimes in the midst of a softball tournament for the benefit of my brother's children, I can look up into the clear blue sky and see a hawk circling over the field.  And sometimes, if I listen real heard, I can hear that same hawk calling out, making noises, and circling.

Sometimes.  Though it's only happened once.

Sometimes I sit at work, finish a major contract, put my feet up on the desk, stretch my hands out before me and crack my knuckles, look up to the ceiling and breathe.

Sometimes I get so immersed in the day to day, the grind of troubles, the whine of children, the shine of children, the dream of something more, and I forget that I can do it.  And sometimes I think I've licked it, forgotten, succeeded in living with it. 

Sometimes I put the headphones on, hit shuffle, close my eyes and ask for a song that means something. Sometimes "Long Walk Home" comes up, and memories come rushing forth.  Sometimes "Dominick the Donkey" shows up, and memories come rushing forth.  Sometimes "My Way" comes up, and memories come rushing forth.

Sometimes I sit in silence.

Sometimes I am so hell bent on spending time with my children that I smother them with plans to watch a show together, play a game together, or talk to them that I aggravate them and they go it alone for awhile.

Sometimes I ignore people I love.  I forget to call or thank them.  I choose not to put forth the effort.

Sometimes I take on a task that is impossible to complete on my own, and I complete it.  Like moving a sofa from the top floor, down two flights of stairs, and into the basement.  Or mowing, planting the front garden, power washing the deck, cleaning the house, folding laundry and buying groceries in the span of eight hours without a break.

Sometimes I do that and more.

But most of the time? 

Most of the time I just try to love as much as I can because I know that other people are living with a broken heart, and other people need a smile, and other people have their own ways that work.

Tonight is a sometimes moment.

But most of the time, it's not.