“Count all the good things that happened in your day, not the bad ones,” he told me.
“But I had a bad day,” I told him. “Bad things happened all day. At breakfast I spilled my cereal on my lap and mom yelled at me because I was late for the bus –”
“But what good things happened today?” he pushed me. “Count the good things.”
I am having a bad day and I recall this conversation. Adding up every single thing that was bad in my day, the dirty looks and sharp turns and crappy news and shitty lunch and rolling eyes; I feel guilty. I should count the good things. The good things that peeked through the curtains and pushed at the corners of my mouth. It’s a bad fucking day though. What did he have to be so goddamn happy about? But then again, he was probably high. Ghost floating father, anchored to the couch and wandering in the forest blazing trails all over the place: through the trees and over his lungs and through our family. Count the good things, little girl. The bad things I did won’t count for shit.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment