Yes, it is true.
Sometimes, I am eight.

I stand by the mantelpiece and watch the clock tick upon the wall.
Each second seems excruciatingly extended.
Is there really a purpose to these endless days that stretch into years
That stretch into meaninglessness?
She rests in bed again.
Depression shifts itself into the corners of her room and her smile
Does not reach her eyes.
Mom is very tired.
My father gently guides me from the room,
But she draws me back to say you know I'll love you
Even when I’m gone,
And then I run outside and throw a vibrant red ball into the sky as
If to stubbornly defy her

Hopelessness.

I so want her to see that there are bright things yet.

I dig them from the ground with my hands
And find them in the remote groves of pines
That stand in harsh wilds outside the boundary lines of
The sadness drawn across her eyes.

I wanted to shatter them with light;

Yet, now it is I who has to fight the darkness in my veins,
Using all my strength to push it away
From my children,
So they do not have to do the same.