I threw a chair off the front porch this morning in a rage-panic. Went down and picked it up and wrestled it back up the steps while Lochlan watched but did not help, even as I scratched the dark green paint on the floor of the porch because the chair is wooden, large and heavy. I scream again as I finally shove it back into place and wonder how I managed to get it over the rail in the first place.
Feel better? He says, looking out across the drive toward the woods.
Nope, I admit.
Want to go for a walk?
Too cold.
Everything's fine, Bridget. In a while this will be another tale, down the road.
I know he's right but I really hate this feeling. Panic is only marginally better than outright fear and I don't want to feel either one.