We hear the words meant to encourage us. Those who say we handle this all with such grace, but behind the computer screen and the behind the smiles, are the short tempers, the tears, and the shouting. We have weeks where we plant a small seed of hope only to see it die as poverty viciously chokes it with pain and destruction. We have weeks where the closest we get to a smile is a grimace that we hope passes as something close to friendly. Some days we sit in the car and sob, with arms wrapped tightly around our middles to keep from splitting apart. Some days we tiredly accept that the sink backs up, the dashboard is alight with various warnings, the household appliances work only occasionally, and that one signature that would unwind a small ribbon of stress isn't available. Other days we kick the offending appliance and are later embarrassed by the dents. Some days there isn't any grace to go around.
There is no "but" to this. There is no "at least". Some days the only relief is once the kids are quiet in their beds, and we have retreated to our own distractions. Some days the fleeting relief doesn't come until the early hours of the morning when the worries and scenarios in our heads finally slacken enough to allow sleep to claim its place for a short while. We don't give voice to the questions that overwhelm us. The "how much longer?" type of questions. They hang between us. There aren't any answers to these questions anyway.
We live knowing that we fall closer and closer to losing our home and any lingering dignity that bothered to stick around. We struggle to grasp at the threads of hope knowing they are far more fragile than ropes thrown to the drowning.
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