Wait for the crossing arm

You were fine in the checkout line. Then a jingle on the speakers, or nothing at all, and the whole day went gray in one step. The weight isn't the scary part. The ambush is. You'd strung together some decent days and figured the low stretch was behind you. Now it feels like the whole thing is back. It isn't.

A heavy stretch works like a freight train at a crossing. Standing at the arm, you'd swear it's endless. Car after car after car. Then it's past, the arm lifts, and the street's just a street again. The cigarette used to step in mid train and take a bow when the arm went up.

Learn the length of yours. Next time the gray lands, glance at the clock. Glance again when you catch yourself hungry, or smiling at something small, or thinking about anything else. Two glances. That's the whole job. Once you know how long your train runs, the next one is only a wait.

While you wait at the arm, give your hands something kind to do. Wrap them around a hot mug. Skip explaining the mood. Lean on God and let Him hold the rest. Keep me until this passes. If the gray ever stops lifting and stays put for weeks, call your doctor or a close friend. That call takes nerve. The arm lifts, and you cross over free.