Remembering: A Practice
I remember the early morning brightness, open and ready and anticipatory — alive. Only to lose it all to the new normalcy of my dual role:
mother and second grade home schooler.
I remember the brilliance of our full moon on Wednesday, with her stubbornness to rise above the tree line off of my patio. And then…
how she startled me, all at once, when I went back to look again.
I remember the flirtation and love making, the way my husband told me how beautiful I am, in my un-tidiness.
A new look for me: Pandemic Chic.
I remember candle lighting before dawn, and incense. Hot coffee in one of those mugs we bought in Tahoe last winter, before the world
slowed to a halt.
I remember feigning comfort with my friends, while their kids ran and played together — and mine sat home quarantined, following the “rules”.
No, I don’t think I’m okay with this. Then, I’ve wanted nothing more than this. These blurred lines, throwing all six-feet-apartedness to the proverbial wolves.
I remember heat and swimming and the smell of chlorine reminiscent of summer and childhood and how it made me wonder…now?
Is the season changing now?
I remember stilted conversation with my mom and her sadness.
The two sound so similar sometimes. These new days.
I remember who I am, again and again, pendulum-style.
Though there’s effort there, swinging out and away. Then back again.
Tick, tock, tick…A practice.