With every push of my sick boy in the swing under clusters of oranges hanging canopy, I drop my bucket into the well of loneliness. It hits the cold stone walls on the way down, echoes when it hits the floor empty. And a voice on the other side of my fence cracks the quiet open, pulls the rope and bucket back up again with arms tired from carrying a sack of whiny.
My pastor stands in the church parking lot on the other side of my concrete wall and his familiar southern accent in the middle of the desert moves me to the gate. I unlock it with Harrison on my hip. He greets me with his usual wide-eyed smile, asks me how I am because he hasn’t seen me in a while. My uncombed hair, bare face and eyes ringed red answer his question.
It’s been a month of . . . .