Alice suffers from depression.  This is very hard for mamas.  I suffer with her, but she suffers pain that I could never know.  I think I might be bad for her depression.  As in "make it worse."  I make dumb jokes to try to lighten her load, such as offering to cut a hole in her door to slide plates of food through when things are bad.  

There is some up sides to being depressed.  Bank on me to think of this.  I can't actually think of too many at this exact moment, but I can think of one.  Depressed people write beautiful poetry.  Really Beautiful.  That's because they are deep.  I can't write poetry with a ten foot pole.  That's because I'm quite shallow.  Alice's poetry makes one ache.  My poetry, by graphic contrast, makes one barf.  She writes beautiful fiction.  The smattering of fiction that I have written, well.  It’s a good thing that fiction writing is not one of the requirements of attaining heaven.  I'm having a tough time just meeting the real requirements. 

Gethsemane by Alice

This joyless night, wherein I find

my own soul, black-walled, prisons me

in bars unbending; try, my soul,

from soul's own bonds to wrench thee free.

No hope before, no love behind,

no joy at all to cheer the brain;

or, if there be, I to it blind

know but this ever-present pain

self-rendered; blackness tangible.

Thine be the blackness, Thine the ache,

for in Thy flesh they were and are

tangible; then I will embrace them,

clutch the hands that hold the scar.

Thou art within the dark and pain;

then, from within, my crucible

Thou will embrace--me will embrace--

God's own embrace, intangible,

save as darkness and as pain

to us, us wretched ones, who mend

our own chains; us who see too well

to light and comfort comprehend.

And I shall laugh again, caressing

this my torment, this my pain;

clutching it closer, precious thing

that ever makes me Thine again;

wrenching my eyes from prison-walls

to spend this endless hour with Thee:

to seek the joy hid in Thy face

so deep, it looks like blood to me.