It’s a drizzly day in the bustling city named Boston. While buzzing down Eighth street I feel a sudden sadness as I approach an underpass. I notice numerous people living their daily lives. They have nothing on their calendars, for they have none.

Broken plates. The sound of shattered shards of fragile china landing on the distressed wooden table facing the mosaic artist. They used to be fine china plates dressed in a beautiful floral pattern in shades of grey and black. Some fall into the depressions created by pieces of glass piercing the once-smooth surface. They emit a muffled sound, some even landing upright, creating another pit in the wood.

So many times. Too many times. More years than anyone should give-and lose.  With each try, with each step the rungs on my ladder fell away. I tumbled down and landed at the bottom, albeit not the very bottom. There was always a subfloor. Sadly, the basement below always waited to greet me.