I'm always up so late. I don't think I could sleep if I tried, anyway. A memory, thanks to my journal...
We just wrapped up a performance we did for a senior citizen center. After the show, we went around talking to as many of the folks there as we could. Two of us met a lady named Dottie.
Dottie Baker held my hand and told me how her husband of forty-two years left her seven years ago. Her eyes blinking, her lips wavering, she said that even now, even seven years after the fact, she still can't sleep at night. The pain of it all was like water dripping in the sink at night, shattering beats on porcelain drums, haunting her. Shame, worthlessness, regret...the tree branches scraping at her window.
After she told her whole story, after we prayed with her, I walked outside to a bench and started crying. I cried for her, I cried for everybody like her, I cried for myself. Her pain was my pain...not necessarily her story, but her broken heart.
I have been thinking lately about Dottie. I have been thinking about calling to see if she's still at that same center. I want to ask her how she is doing. I want to know if the pain has gone away, or subsided even slightly.
I am crying again tonight. I want to know if her water still drips at night. Her drops are my drops.