by Gargi Mehra

After our honeymoon we divided up the worries. We poured them into a glass jar and drew lots. He snagged little things like where to order from on Friday nights, car-servicing, and how to ride the career elevator. Into my kitty went elderly care, childcare, vegetable freshness, pediatrician visits, basketball practice, guitar classes, dental emergencies, grocery shopping, fridge maintenance, meal planning. When my worries mountained and I couldn’t squeeze them into even my roomiest tote, I began tucking them into his wallet, back pockets, lunchbox. Somehow, they always snaked back. So, I spelt out my worry and then stowed it in a crevice where he would find it. This time they stayed firm. They didn’t boomerang back into my life. I exhaled puffs of freedom. I paced the room while my mind shuffled a trimmed list of chores. But I caught myself humming while loading the dishwasher, lingering at the window as I nursed a cup of chamomile tea. Just when my breaths fell into a steady rhythm, a worry slipped from my satchel. I cursed the glass jar that had thrown us together and then prodded us apart. I cursed the worries, so they mutated like viral particles. They began procreating, churning out newer, smaller worries, echoes of their original selves. Elderly care and childcare (medication and appointments) morphed into geriatric- and teenage-care (‘who are you?’ and ‘can a butterknife kill me?’). The physician’s name slipped my mind but I repeated the therapist’s name like a mantra. Each set of mini-worries stacked up on their predecessor, until they forged a massive pyramid that elbowed me out of the home. But when I left, all the worries came with me, both the trivial and the weighty.

At the court of judgment, they divided our worries once more. I felt complete again, even if two of them – despair and loneliness – remained with me.

Image by @sylwester-ficek via pexels