Sometimes my life is too full.
Like days when I meet an 18-year-old hate crime victim who's experienced such senseless violence but can somehow still smile. And then I see a friend's snapshot of her kid on his first roller coaster ride, taken at the instant his car went into free fall--so much terror in that young face it hurts to see it. And then the man in front of me at the subway ticket automat walks away and leaves an ATM card in the machine and I'm standing there with a co-worker I barely know and we have to figure out what to do because the guy is already gone.
So then I come home and almost the first thing I do is scold V. for running out of the front door when my back is turned but she's just exhausted from a busy day and anyway she just wanted to say goodbye again to Rosa, her favorite (and only) babysitter in the whole world. Then Adinah draws me beautiful pictures of princesses and African dancers. And V. sits next to me to help make the mashed potatoes and she tells me, "I love you, Papa," for the first time ever. Then she lays her head on my shoulder.
And Anette comes home and asks me how my day was and suddenly I'm trying to explain to her and Adinah (a simple version of) what happened to the hate crime victim and I get a lump in my throat and then I tell them what V. told me and I do cry and V. comes over and says, "Are you sad?" and I say, "No," but the truth is I don't even know exactly what I'm feeling, but I'm feeling a lot.
Sometimes it's too much. Too much.