I wept the moment I saw the school director’s sympathetic face.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
“Could I get a hug?” I asked, eyes suddenly overflowing.
“Sure,” the director answered while walking around her desk.
After she hugged me, we talked briefly about the dozens of logistics I’m constantly juggling mentally as my older son prepares to start first grade next month. Read more…
Last night I wrote about how I haven’t seen my friends enough since I had my second child.
Today my family and I joined our friend Rara and her mamasaur at a playground. We chatted while running after my kids, and in between my older son’s breathless entreaties to race him. (Spoiler alert: He always wins, but his races are just on the other side of fair.)
We all went to eat. My oldest sat next to Rara and nuzzled her as if they’d known each other forever; maybe they have. My littlest one didn’t so much eat as smear rice all over the table.
I cheered out loud when I saw her little dinosaur.
My continued cheering quietly as we said farewell. See you soon.
After returning home, I read her newest post. It answers the question, “Where’re you goin’?”
I didn’t know that earlier, when I told her I’m not sure where I’m headed. I only have the vaguest idea.
What I do know for sure is that I’ll be in good company getting wherever “where” is.
Today I visited with friends.
I haven’t done that much since I had my second child last year.
I haven’t had the time or energy. Since I already drive at least three hours each weekday, I haven’t wanted to negotiate drives further than five minutes away from home on the weekends. Weekday evenings have been completely out of the question.
My husband’s nudged me toward the door. He’s encouraged me to make time with girlfriends, suggesting it’ll lift me up like no words on a screen ever could. I’ve waved him off, thinking I was doing myself a favor by avoiding the drive, the time, the emotional output.
I knew my husband was right when my heart plummeted as my friends walked away today. I wanted to shout, “Don’t leave! Please! Let’s just stay here for another ten minutes! Or five? I’d even take three!” Instead, I quietly helped pack my family’s things with tears in my eyes. Read more…
How can there be
a storm and a song
in my heart
one to weep
and the other to wonder?
What strange supposition,
that the human heart
must be so small!
knowing no better, perhaps?,
dance while dreading;
lift while lurching;
hug while hurting;
blow kisses while bidding adieu;
for more feelings
than there are words.
A car like my own zipped past me on the freeway this morning.
I shook my head when I saw an “In Loving Memory” sticker plastered across its rear window.
What a strange place for an in memoriam, I thought.
I’ve thought this dozens of times.
For some reason, seeing the lettering fade into the distance on a car like my own jarred me:
In some ways, that’s the perfect place for a reminder.
Grief can feel like a deep, unmoving, unmoveable eternity.
But when we start pushing against it, learning to take tiny steps against its vastness, we can see glimpses of greater movement beyond. We can see glimmers of how we carry with us in our love and our motion the deceased whom we love.
To emblazon it on a car is a powerful thing;
a mighty reminder that, though I might never hug you again,