Worry

I don’t know many men who seem to worry. Worry seems to be the weight relegated to women, or maybe moms. At least in my family.

What will we eat for dinner? Is ______ ok? So-and-so seems sad. What catastrophes await? 

I used to tease my mom about her worries, “It’s like a rocking chair, Mom, gives you something to do, but doesn’t get you anywhere.”

When my mom died, I felt like I inherited her worry. I couldn’t sleep for worry over my brothers, my step-dad, my cousins, aunts, friends of my mom. 

I felt the absence of her worry over me. This useless, invisible weight that once sat on my shoulders, that kept me from telling her about my life because I didn’t want to increase her burdens. But instead of relief, it felt like a cold spot, exposed, enamel worn away to expose the nerve on a tooth.

Such a paradox, the weight and exposure.