There Were Days When I was Happy

There were. I can remember the feeling. The feelings. Almost like I can remember wind in my hair, I can remember being happy. I can remember kissing Daddy on the forehead from behind his big lazy chair as I left the house. I can remember holding Jamie's hand while I drove us the long way home to give him more time with the window down, radio up. I can remember the times he would say, "I borrow it" because he wanted to wear something of mine. My shirt, my hoodie. I can remember how he made me feel, special. I think, I hope, I made him feel the same. That I made him smile when he saw me. That it made him happy to be with me. I remember there were days when I was happy. Does it sound dramatic to say I'm unhappy? To say I'm sad. To say that sadness is always around the corner for me. See, this version of depression is tricky. I can go to work, I can have a good day at work. I can even do well, or do right, or do something successful. But then night comes. The car trip home comes. The solitude comes. I can drown it out, background noise, snacks, laundry, yard work and social media. All cleverly used to drown out the quiet of the grief. It's there, I can hear it. It reminds me There were days when I was happy.