On the dark days I want to buzz cut my hair and look nothing like myself. I want to unzip this suit of skin and face and hair and rid myself of the weight of it. It has become so heavy like a wet, wool coat beneath one of those lead vests they drape you in for dental x-rays. I want to feel light like waves on the ocean, skimming frothy on wet sand, like birds on the air, clouds on the sky. But the iron-cast belly of babies and middle age drags me down. I just want to wipe away the heat, to lay on the cool tile floor, feel the staccatoed breeze of an oscillating fan, hear nothing but it's gentle, caressing whir, stare blankly into the space just inches from the tip of my nose. An hour later I'll notice the comforting weight of my tiny dog's body against my leg and it will be enough to release the tears. Silent drops. Because, well, silence. My reflection, forever emblazoned on the back of my eyelids, will heave my ches
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