My Sadness spends too much time at the vanity with baby wipes and sharpened kohl and too-sparse eyebrows to afford breakfast; she is a full sort of empty anyway and will not be spoon fed chocolate pudding with plastic cutlery, will burrow into the couch cushions until I give up. We watch the 6 am news in silence as she eyes my oatmeal until it is the 7 am news and we are so late she may as well have eaten.
My sadness records on her spreadsheet six saltless peanuts in the cafeteria, highlighted brown for constipation. They taste like crickets, heads bursting gummily, encasing incisors in dislocated legs like prison bars or a tapestry’s loom–beautiful.
My Sadness wants more elbow room at the dinner table, eats two deviled eggs and smears whipped yolk into the thinned linen placemat with winter-chapped elbows before excusing herself. From sliding door to pond to pebbles, she tucks some under her tongue so she does not dehydrate.
She does not speak lest they tumble into her throat, signs “I love you” to everyone she doesn’t want to lose, but they mistake the curled knuckles for “rock on”, so they do rock on, without us.