Mandolin

When I contemplated getting a mandolin, that's when I knew things were bad. It had been days since I'd left the house, weeks since any substantial outing, months since one had been with a woman. And now here I was, placing a tapestry I bought from a strange Eastern European, making my own juice, wondering if maybe I should finally learn how to play the mandolin. As if playing the mandolin was always something I'd wanted to do.

People deal with things different, grief. Or whatever you want to call it. And there's no right or wrong way but if there had to be I'm fairly certain mine would end up in the latter. Jumping aboard some small fad in order to feel a part of something, anything. But whatever you feel ends up being small, too, so the joke is really on you. And the mandolin is on your wall, reminding, always reminding. You were sad once. You were weak. You could not face a thing head on.