72

June

For my sins I have passed to my sons the black dogs of depression. Each one trails his way through the months of melancholy, sleeplessnesss, unsummoned anxiety and exhaustion. Emerging they are changed, as we all are, grown through, taller, wiser but warier. Their comforts are different than mine but each succour taken is a gift. I stare into the distance, walk away the melancholy, indulge in faintly pleasurable loneliness or dig a hole, literally. They have to discover their own ways, own successes and failures.  They don't really want to hear of my experience.

A flower jungle is my garden, climbing, clinging, twining and creeping. I am contented for now.