04/11/2015

3 November 2015

A young girl, in distress, standing crying and gasping for air, as I approach. I know her. So I ask her what is wrong. Panic attack. Anxiety. Can’t cope. So I lead her down to a quiet place where we can sit on soft seats, and fairly quickly she calms. So many of us, I ponder, as we talk, are just not equipped to live this life, at least at times. And I tell her it happens to many of us, sometimes. And she settles, until we part, and she moves on. But she does not appear where she should in the afternoon, although she said she would. This November. This growing grey November, when I eventually drive home through fallen leaves, and I think, of young girls and old women, and boys and men, and age and life, and springtime, coming, I hope. And I cope.