The Smallest Trace of Necessity

Sometimes, you would barely know she was there, but she was enough to keep me going.

At that age, I was a mess. I had been sick, I had been out of work. I had no money. I lived 200 yards from the beach and it meant almost nothing to me. I was on antidepressants, but they weren’t working. I felt like there was this kind of dull, gray tarp over everything: nothing looked right, nothing felt right.

Still, there she was, and she needed me.

I had borrowed money from my parents to get me through. All of my savings was gone; all my plans for a better life seemed a hundred lifetimes ago. I had just enough for she and me to squeak by. Because of her, though, I was hoping to get back to work. I didn’t care about living or dying, truthfully, but I cared about her.

It’s silly I know, but, when your feelings don’t work right, you can’t live right, because feelings give us reasons to do things. Knowledge only gives us ways to do things.

I had been encouraged to get out of my apartment and try to walk daily; this wasn’t something she would want to do. I would walk down the beach, indifferent to the sunset, often forgetting to even wear shoes. Earlier that day, I had walked across the street to a grocery store, so I started thinking about what we’d do for dinner.

She would always be right there waiting for me when I got back from these walks. I would look at her and think, I could never do what I tried to do again. I can’t leave her.

For love, in whatever form, introduces just the smallest trace of necessity in what can otherwise seem a pointless existence.

The Smallest Trace of Necessity (2)

For Nano Poblano this year, I’m trying a prose post a day instead of my usual work in poetry. Thanks for reading. – S.B.


Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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