I’ve watched people over the years. 

Struggling to live a normal life.  Wanting to be like others.  And knowing they aren’t.

The lady whose husband had to take her to the hospital. For her own good and for his welfare.  To end up as a patient in a wing of the facility, needing assessment and rehabilitation.

Or the weekly visits to the mental health assessment office by a man of my age.  His prescriptions strongly regulated to help him maintain a balance in life.

Or the struggling writer whose cab fares helped to pay for his subsistent lifestyle.  Always aware that a bi-polar disorder could wreck havoc on his life.

And I sit around the coffee table, and we look at each other.  We talk about nothing and everything.  We pray. 

Life is normal, for the moment.