Ode to Ophelia

The day began as many of my days now do. I woke up to the alarm at 5:02 sharp, then promptly pounded on the snooze button until about 5:50. This allows me enough time to put on my clothes and make coffee and get out the door with about 10 minutes to spare to wait for the bus, but no time to think about what I'm about to get myself into. Again.
I stand at the bus stop, (Early, because you never know when the bus will be early, though it is usually a few minutes late. Few things are worse than watching the tail lights of your last chance to get to work on time head down the road.) cold, wishing I could sit because I'm not yet awake enough to stand, smoking the first of my guiltarettes. Hop on the bus, spend 45 minutes wishing I could fall asleep on said bus.
These days work has become almost painful. I make just enough money to pay the things we need to pay, and we eat mostly well. The last half of the month our meals get more and more simple, with the last week consisting mostly of black beans and rice, with the occasional bowl of top ramin or canned soup thrown in. Sarah eats sparingly during the day, waiting for me to get home before eating a big meal because, I believe, she knows I don't eat during the day to save money so she can.
It's frustrating, because costs keep cropping up that I don't expect or factor into monthly budgets. I pay for the bus mostly in loose change so I forget that it costs $80 a month. Diapers are of vital importance, so why can't I remember that they run me about $40 per paycheck?
All these same thoughts keep running through my malnurished brain day after day. Work is unsatisfying because my work keeps piling up, and I'm not getting the help that was promised me. This month, due to sickness and awkward scheduling, we will be late for rent for the first time. I'm worried about bus fare for next week, and I don't know if our luxury barbeque sauce will hold out for our beans and rice.
So this day gets me especially down. Money, food, entertainment, laundry, poor work environment and questionable paychecks are on my brain. I'm worried that I'm failing the two most important people in my life, my love and my daughter. (Though Ophelia is the most well fed and generally taken care of person in our household.) By the time I leave work, full blown depression has set in.
Then I get home, and to some extent, my mood lifts. Sarah is happy to see me, holds me and kisses me. I pick up my daughter and she smiles at me with that perfect, guileless smile only babies can muster. We have company coming over this night, and the house is a wreck, so I muster up the effort to start on the kitchen.
"Would you like to listen to some music?" I ask Sarah, just as she is forming the same question for me. We put on a Dave Matthews mix, and the music begins.
Immediatly I want to dance with my daughter. To spin her around the room and sing to her, and lose myself in her warm, soft, pink perfect baby body. I skip through the songs for one I've memorized, (Because still, for some reason, I am still afraid to sing in front of my love, who loves my voice, and my daughter, who is just happy for the attention. I sing better with songs I know, you see. Or at least I am more sure of myself.) and I land on crush. A love song. It's been my favorite Dave song since I first heard it at 16, and it was never better than it was now. I stood there, swaying, singing, the words applied to my little girl, and I start getting choked up. Tears started rolling down my face, and I was unable to manage more than a hoarse whisper of words to sing with. Sarah, noticing what is going on, stood behind with her arms around me, and I lost myself. My worries slipped out of my head as I clutched (Not too tightly) the best thing that's ever happened to me since Sarah.
I am loved. I am loved by God, who, despite my many blunders, has seen fit to place such wonderful people in my life permanantly as a reminder of His love. I am loved by Sarah, who accepts our near poverty curcumstances, meager fridge and humble dwellings, because I love her totally and completly. And by Ophelia, who simply does not care. All she knows is that she is cared for, and she is safe with us. (Of course, it doesn't hurt that there is always a free nipple just a cry away.)
Our time here is short. I get caught up in the mounting american pressure for status and stuff. I forget that, once taken away, it is the lives of others that touch us more deeply than anything we can buy. I am at peace. I know our curcumstances will forever be changing. Some days good, some bad.

In the immortal words of Sam Elliot, "Sometimes you eat the bar, sometimes the bar eats you."