Say woodcutter, not tyrant. Repetition, not

apocalypse. Love, not disappearance.

Melancholy, not depression. Derrida says that the 

melancholic is one who refuses to forget. That 

melancholy is necessary. I have learned to keep my

hands on melancholy. A death, another, and

another, more woodcutters, more holes in the

ground. What if the earth was meant to die, like a

thing we jumped on that was already moving?

Maybe the melancholic’s problem is a desire to

remember everything. When everything has

already been decided, the pictures already taken.

This morning, my daughter walked to the coffee

shop on her own, amid the indifferent trees. Her

gait doubled overnight. She broke up with a boy.

Her melancholy weaved into my melancholy, the

way trees stand next to each other in purples and

yellows without touching. Melancholy is to

remember that the houses were wonderful even

when the childhood wasn’t. Depression is to

remember that the houses and the childhood

weren’t wonderful, but to think they were.