The windows are shut tight, yet, the faint rhythm of music that gently flows from someone’s radio is swaying over the ivy-covered walls, seeping into the crevices of the window’s frame, into our home. Other than that, the outside world seems shut off from inside this small room. Peacefulness is felt, but it’s wrapped tightly around angst.

I am at peace in the quiet confines of my sanctuary, but I worry because my son worries. He’s concerned that Rudy and I are arguing because of something he did. Something that should not have happened. But I assure my son that the anger has nothing to do with him but everything to do with hopelessness.

Rudy is drowning. On some days. Floating on others. His mood is all over the place. Aimed at everyone. And no one. And all the while I am simply trying to figure out how to hold it all together. To maintain a sense of balance so that my son will believe that everything will be OK.

The ceiling fan spins slowly, round and round, tossing puffs of air towards me. Cooling me and my thoughts. But then, suddenly, I hear a door slam from somewhere at the other end of the house. And that’s when my toes curl, my feet stiffen, and my heart seems to skip a beat.

A moment later a child laughs and a puppy barks. Over and over. So much so that my mixed emotions fade and I’m tuned into the wonderment of what’s happening beyond my life.