They’re called life’s storms, those days when waves desert the shore, churn up and down instead. High on her shelf she watched herself—flailing, drowning, wed to uncertainty. Her husband didn’t ask about her day—just, “Did you remember this; get that done?” She answered, “I will,” then, filled with resentment, failed to offer support.
“It’s not his fault, nor mine,” she knew, their son leaving soon; the sun—skies turning gray like summer’s last cloak falling with the spring. Life’s storms are just the passing of time and laughter comes again; glad just to know they're sharing the boat.