Too Much

It's all so hard. How cruel to no longer be able to help yourself. And yet, the Buddhists would say they are serving their purpose on this earth still, giving me an opportunity to do for them as they have done for me. When I am alone in a room, tears wash down my face. When they call because they need something, a hand in the bath, tea or warm milk to take their tablets with, help lifting their feet, company, I dry my face quickly and I go. I am late to work every morning, because I cannot leave them, I cannot leave home until they are dressed and breakfasted, because they might fall trying to get these things done for themselves, and I wonder can people lose their jobs because of the seeming irresponsibility of tardiness when in fact they are trying to discharge an even greater responsibility elsewhere. I have this feeling that layoffs are in the offing again at my job. I always think that this time, my name will be on the list, even though work is the one place these days where I have time to sit, to hear myself think, to be. The task of editing stories feels like a meditation compared to the rest of it.  It's all so much. Too much. I feel so guilty saying that. And of course, I will do what I can. I will love them. Because that is what is being asked. Love in action. That is all.