depression and sadness are two different creatures

My grandparents found love together like a storm door for a heart
that still rattles on its hinges whenever the other person approaches.
They still shake each other to the core.
But when my grandfather tried tattooing sadness all over his body
until it learned to get under his skin and ruin every bit of ink,
that wasn’t depression. My grandmother’s tattoos were.
It swallowed the entire bottle
and left no more room for any designs on her elbows or neck.
For that entire year, he couldn’t even get her to leave the house.
That’s how I learned you can love somebody without being able to take care of them.
Sadness is waking up on the wrong side of the bed;
depression is lying in it from sunrise to sunset without having the energy
to move a single muscle.
That’s why my grandfather watched the sky turn pomegranate every morning and night
through the front window while my grandmother struggled
to even lift her head up to the sill.
There were mountains between them that sadness
tried to get a foothold on, while depression rested at the very bottom,
not even bothering to grip the ridges and haul itself up.
My grandparents both loved like typhoons and clenched fists,
like they were each other’s emergency contacts, like drug-addicted lungs
trying to get one more shot of air.
But in the end, my grandfather’s sadness slept heavy in his spine
while my grandmother’s depression broke hers in two.
That’s why I watched her grow up bent over; that’s why I went through
my childhood with a fear of scoliosis.
That’s why my grandfather just winces whenever he stoops to walk through a doorway
but my grandmother has to use a wheelchair.
That’s how I learned sometimes the parachute of love
malfunctions on its way down and sometimes the inhabitants
end up crashing headfirst into the ground,
because love can’t save one person weighted down by sadness
who’s simultaneously trying to save another crushed by depression.