When Sad Leaves

I thought of writing a thank you to my sadness the other day. I have pretty thank you notes in my desk drawer. The ones I like the most have cheery yellow envelopes. The cards have D.I.Y. green, yellow and blue craft birds sitting along the bottom. I, of course, can't stop touching the felt long enough to open up to the empty inside where I would write.  So I don't ever use them. They seem too sacred and pretty to give out as gratitude for socks, or earrings or the nail polish I got in my Christmas stocking two winters ago.

Yesterday I sat down at my desk and started to type the beginnings of a poem -- I hoped. I saw it already on the paper -- a short blank verse documenting a scribe of gratefulness to every sadness I had ever experienced.  Even the day my mother told my family I had died so she wouldn't have to see the reminder of the man she loved and lost got a pretty bird thank you. I would have pressed my lips firmly against the back of the envelope the way that long lost lover pen pals do sometimes. Maybe I'd mist it with a scent of sugar and almond butter, slip a picture inside in case the sadness needed a reminder of what I looked like back when it could have killed me.

Because now that I'm sitting here -- at this crossroads of high definition happy -- sadness even when pressed against me -- so close that I can smell the salt on its skin -- doesn't look the same. Even when it catches my breath and wrings it tightly, I can't be too upset at the drive-by.

Because just look...look at the presents sad leaves at my door after it says goodbye.