for Susanna Kaysen

Today’s sadness is different form yesterday’s:

more green in it, some light rain, premonition of departures

and the unpacking of books and papers. It’s not a bad thing

to be sad, my friend Susanna says. Go with it. I’m going by foot

into this sadness, the way we go as children into the awful

schoolday and the hours of cruelty and misunderstanding,

the way we go into family, into the savagery of standing

up for ourselves among siblings and parents, in yesterday’s

living room, where secrecy turns to habit and we learn the awful,

unthinkable fact: time twists our days into a series of departures.

When he was mad, my afther used to say Someone’s got to foot

the bills, and I think of him now, this man who knew one thing

for sure: you had to pay your own way, since nothing

came for free in this life. A young dyke, grandstanding

before the relatives, I held my sadness close, one foot

already out the door. Who could believe in yesterday’s

homilies while women cruised me, seventeen and hot for departure?

Today’s sadness unfurls without drama, wihtout the awful

punishments or reprisals of that house. In its place, the awful,

simple, mystery of human melancholy. Most days, I’d trade anything

to be rid of the blues, accustomed to flight and departure,

strategies that saved my life. Today I’m befriending it, standing

beside my sadness, like a pal down on her luck, who knows yesterday

isn’t always a good predictor for tomorrow. A rabbit’s foot

won’t help; when the time comes, it’s a questoin of putting my foot

in the sirrup and riding the sad horse of my body to the awful

little stable at the edge of town. And there to wait while yesterday

has its way with time. Susanna said, To be sad is not a bad thing,

and I believe her, as I pull the heavy saddle from the standing

horse and hang the bridle away. Sadness readies for my departure,

and I for hers. In a most unlikely departure

from the ordinary, even the tough butch on a bike will be a tenderfoot

when it comes to goodbyes. We carry on, not withstanding

all the good itmes gone and December’s awful

cheerfulness. Susannah, if I ever discern something

useful about sadness, I’ll wish I’d known it yesterday.

I’ve put distracting things aside and discovered, underfoot,

no wisdom absent yesterday. Still, a saint would find this awful:

a standing date with change, a season of departures.