One-Woman Show

There exists no one-woman show.  

A collection of women emerge from behind the curtain to arrive on our doorstep. Uninvited, they have come to share a feeling with us.  Their desire to reach out to us, to have us share in their internal wince, is palpable.  So naturally, we join them.  Instinctively our bodies recoil at the sight of your show, but our eyes are fixed. This beautiful collection of women, with whom I now join, are fixed upon your solo endeavours.  That is until we eventually laugh the cringe off and the spell is broken.    

I’ve collected women all of my life.  It’s with these new additions that I feel especially at home.  They are strong and assertive, yet kind and compassionate. Your exit opened the seat for me at this table.  I’m told I belong here and I feel it too. We discuss a variety of topics but one thing we all agree upon is the fact that there exists no one-woman show.  

I am a collection of women: those who paved the way, those with whom I open myself, and the young who are watching your silly show.

Witchy Like That

“I’m just witchy like that,” I tell you.  

It’s an indescribable feeling.  In only a moment, a wash rolls over my body and I am infused with a knowing.  Most wouldn’t even notice that it happened to me.  Often escaping my body as a sigh or a shiver, I just know that something has washed over me.  

We are sitting at the kitchen table, the cribbage board between us.  We are at ease together, you and I.  It’s the most comfortable either of us has been with another.  Facing you, my guard is down and my leg is up, toes tucked slightly under your thigh.  We are connected and laughing, one hundred percent present on this beautiful Saturday evening.  

My guard is down, I’m an easy target.

You see the shift in that one instant.  In the time it took for me to sigh, you could see that something was exploding behind my eyes.  They are, after all, the gateway to my soul.   

In that moment, a knowing washed over me and my sadness was comforted.  In that one sigh, a knowing washed over me and I accepted fate.  In that one moment, I was reassured that I can handle it.  

I know that I will be okay.  

In that one moment, a message was placed inside my heart: spend time and make memories. 

You asked what I was thinking about.I imagine you didn't expect that response!  I’m witchy like that.  I tell you that this happens sometimes, always has.   We talk about it and carry on with our game.

We play out the next hand; the final hand of the game.  We lay our cards down, realizing that our cards are identical.  We each have two kings and two fives.  A secondary wash confirms the existence of the first. 

I tear up a little.  

Hello, my tiny love.  

Graduation Day

When I woke up, I was already sobbing. 

She told me later that she heard me apologize to you before the weeping began.

She woke me up, pulled me from the dream but not from the sadness.

Into her, I turned and wept.

I told her it was you that I was dreaming about.

I don’t remember the dream, but I felt you in that moment.

There I lay, this morning at 4am, and bawled. 

Fetal and raw, tears ran down my face and onto my pillow.

I practiced my breath-work to slow the fun little 4am Menty-B I was having.

I have been practicing my breath-work all week

When, photo after photo, I am bombarded with the reminders:

You should be graduating.

You should be here.

But, you aren’t.

I watch and smile at all the photos of the babies, now grown, who are graduating.

I rubbed their mother’s tummy, as they rubbed mine.

We are all connected. 

You see, all week I would open my social media only to close it.

The gown.  

The caps.  

The smiles on living children.  

It all hurt far too much.

So I closed the apps and thought I was good.

I thought I was good until I wasn’t.

Breathwork helped.  It always does.

As I turned to lay my head back down, I grabbed my phone.

A new text.

Your sister had texted me at 11:30 the night before.

It seems that you visited her as well.

She said:

“Mom

I just realized something while trying to fall asleep

Today Penelope would have graduated.

It’s the 8th grade Graduation day.”

So, my firstborn.

My love.

My graduate. 

I have loved you since the moment I knew of your existence and I will love you until the end of mine (and for eons after).

Now, toss that cap high into the sky and I’ll turn my gaze up to see if I might be able to see.

Happy Graduation Day, Sweet Baby P.

Honeymoon Phase

I am going to take this minute because I think you’re a touch misunderstood. I can see how you got there.  I am going to request that you correct both your word choice and narrative. You’ve got it all wrong. This has been no honeymoon. I’ll explain. 

My world exploded.  I was working full-time, studying full-time and continually picking shrapnel from the wounds of my loved ones, I didn’t have time for you.  I’m sorry that I didn’t have time for you.

But sometimes I did.  And when I did, I brought all the good stuff directly to you.  All the stuff that made the bomb worthwhile: the moments that made my heart smile, the love, the joy, the growth and understanding.  I saved those things just for you.

I can understand that your narrative is tied to the idea that I was on my honeymoon. I didn’t need you for the hard stuff anymore but that didn’t mean that I didn’t need you anymore. I still wanted to tell you the good things, I just reserved the hard stuff for her.  

She held me a lot.  I had trouble sleeping.  Lost weight.  Did breathwork. Therapy.  Became intentional.  Focused in and found peace. It was hard and certainly no honeymoon.  Please change your word choice and narrative.

A Minute Longer

If I could, I’d like a minute longer.  I know you have to go but it’s taken me all night to get here.  All fucking night to end up, shoes off, next to you on this couch.  Please, I might just need a few minutes longer yet. 

I’ve spent all night navigating this and, if I could, I’d like a minute longer to play this out.  It doesn’t usually take me this long but, as you might see, I’m distracted.  You have, at the very least, noticed this behind my eyes. 

I’m distracted by the hand you placed on my arm when you laughed.  It does work! So very distracted by your eyes, hair, and the curve of your hips.  I’m high and in my head.  You look over, check in, and we carry on again.  I’m spinning inside whist trying to play this out.  How the fuck does this play out?

I stand, casually, as casually as I can muster, and kick my shoes off.  Is she looking?  Toss my shirt onto the chair.  Casual.  Ever so casual.  Is she looking?  Slip out of my pants, placing them tidy, ever so tidy, on the chair.  Slid my panties down my hips, bend at the waist.  Is she looking now?

I slip into the water, I’m a strong swimmer but these waters are muddy.  I lean on the edge, something I never do.  Strong swimmers dunk and start, they don’t hang onto the edge.  But, tonight, I cling, thinking through the strokes, the breaths that I might need to take.  I can’t navigate this either.  I’m high and in my head.

The night is wrapping up.  I know it is, but I smoke joint after joint, diving further into my head, deeper into these muddied waters.  I’m feeling rushed watching you put your shoes on.  I want to tell you that I’m close, close to figuring it out.  But I need a minute. 

So, if I could, I’d like just a minute longer to explore why I’d like a minute longer with you.

Kitchen Miracles

I felt her in my kitchen last night.  I might even go as far as to argue with you and say that I saw her too.  I saw her only enough that I called out for her to try to confirm was my eyes were telling me. So, I called out and no one called back to me.  No one called back to me, but an overcoming sense of love washed over me in the absence of sound.  My voice drifted through the kitchen and around the corner, and the only reply was love.

And that’s enough for me.

It’s enough for me to think I saw a tiny head peeking around the corner in the middle of the night as I washed the dishes, listened to music, and danced.  I washed the dishes, listened to music, and danced in my kitchen last night because no one was there to see it. 

No one was there to see it, except her.

She saw it and I can’t help but think that she understands it.  She understands why mom choose to stay up late, while most of the chores were done, and do this very last one.  I was told once, while crying that I should use the act of washing the dishes as a meditative sport.  Wash, rinse, repeat. Be intentional and present I was advised.  Feel the warmth of the water and the repetitive movements of my hands.  When I can do those things, perhaps she will come to me.

And she did come to me.

I felt her before I saw her. I turned around thinking I’ll catch someone out of bed. Instead, it was the flash of a small person peeking around the corner and then pulling away.  ‘Hello’ I called out.  No one answered my call.  No one verbally answered my call, but a wash of love filled my soul.  It was her.  She’s watching you, Mama. Watching you wash the dishes, sing, and sway.  She’s watching you be truly present, truly engaged, and truly happy. 

Perhaps miracles can happen when we are truly present, truly engaged, and truly happy. 

12 Years Ago

I held her 12 years ago.

That one one-sided embrace is all I get this lifetime.

I held her 12 years ago, in complete shock.

Is this one-sided embrace all I get this lifetime?

I kissed her 12 years ago.

The tiny kiss planted on extra rosy lips must sustain me forever.

I kissed her 12 years ago, shaking uncontrollably.

Why are her lips that deep shade of red?

I understood love 12 years ago

Holding her, wrapped up and perfect, I knew I’d die for her.

I understood love 12 years ago, and also loss.

Who the fuck do I need to negotiate with to get her back?

I was born a mother 12 years ago.

A childless mother whose arms ached.

She made me a mother 12 years ago, tear-streaked face.

How do I honour her in everything that I do?

I last saw her 12 years ago.

One last stolen moment on a couch in a funeral home.

I feel her in everything I do, and everything I’ve created.

Who would she look like her sister and act like her mama?

!2 years is a long time to be without something, to feel like it might just be around the next bend, slightly out of reach but, 12 years is just the beginning, we are just warming up.

In 12 years, we’ve made hospital changes, started a conversation about stillbirth, held hands with an entire community of people who felt like they were in the dark.  I’ve put it out there, I’ve put you out there, unapologetically. 

We’ve made noise, haven’t we?

Let’s keep making noise - I’ll sing extra loud tonight right before I blow out your candles for you.

Happy 12th birthday, Penelope.

You are loved and never forgotten.

Heaviness

There’s a heaviness that creeps in this time of year.  I don’t even realize it’s heavy until it fully settles on my chest, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

I don’t even realize it’s heavy, or stop long enough to feels it’s heaviness, until you ask me, pointedly, how I’m doing.  I know what you are looking for, your question, ‘How are you doing?’ cuts through the bullshit of the day-to-day.  Your question cuts right through me.  So, I breathe.  And, after I breathe, allowing the heaviness to fill me, I tell you about it; I describe it to you, hearing it for the first time this year myself.

If I breathe before I answer, I can feel it all. And, If I sit still for long enough, I remember. 

I remember the pink nightgown I wore the morning you passed.  I was sweeping our apartment at 38 weeks and 2 days.  He made a video of me sweeping that morning and I laughed on camera in my pink nighty.  That nightgown, now folded, sits in a bin with a green maxi dress, and an all-black outfit.  These items, I will never part with, but I will certainly never wear again.  That nighty, worn by a woman I can’t even remember.  I’d never wear that nighty now; I’m a tank-top-and-thong-to-bed girl now.  This pink knee-length nighty represents a woman that I don’t know anymore.  Tucked nicely into a plastic bin it sits, along with my naïveté.

Busting at full-term, I slipped off the nighty and into a green maxi dress, perfect for running errands in late September.  I felt you kick in the parking lot at the Superstore.  I remember that moment, standing in the parking lot, saying hello to you, only because I was asked, later that evening to recall it.  That moment, like so many in the previous months, stopped me for a moment, but wasn’t anything to write home about.  You kicked, I acknowledged, and into the grocery store I went.  It wasn’t until I was asked, ‘When was the last time that you felt her move?’ later at the hospital that the moment became forever engraved into my mind.  That kick, the way I cupped the lower right side of my belly while standing in the parking lot, will never dissolve into the day-to-day. 

You, sweet girl, will never dissolve into the day-to-day.  Try as I might to busy myself every September, the moment I stop to breathe, I feel you, and the moment I steady myself, I remember.

Today, I cry for you.

Tomorrow, I celebrate you.

Every day, Mama loves you.

4am

It seems to be 4am when my mind turns on and with it, everything floods in. I begin to replay conversations I’ll never get back; I’ll never have the opportunity for my witty comeback, thought of only after we’d hung up.   I scroll through the pictures that hurt too much to view during the day. I watch a video of myself sweeping, busting at 38 weeks and 2 days pregnant.  I look over the budget and wonder if the kids are going to get to go away to school, if braces are going to break the bank, and dream of a vacation home. I sit up straight, remember the laundry that, many hours earlier, I placed in the wash.  I vow to do better today, to be the mom that they need.  I promise myself that I will yell less.

I jot down sentences into Notepad that have been turning in my head.  Words roll off my tongue and onto the screen.  I think about the song that touched my heart earlier, look up the lyrics, send the song out to those who will appreciate it like I do.  Into the bathroom I move, wash the day before from my face.  I should have done this before I fell asleep, I’ve always been horrible at washing my face before bed.  I vow to be better tomorrow. I sneak down the stairs, I don’t drink water often, but I know I should drink more.  It’s good for me, better than coffee.  I down a glass and vow to drink more of it when the sun is up too.  I head into each bedroom, all three of them, and kiss them on the forehead and marvel at what we have created.  It seems to be 4am when I remember that there should be 4 bedrooms, this thought hits me hardest at 4am.  

The Waves

She rounds the corner of the large property, fanning her teary face with both hands.  She locks eyes with me, comes over and says, “it comes in waves, you know?”

I put my hands to her tear-streaked face, and say, “I know.”

Sweet Sister, let’s talk about these waves:

There will be moments of calm, but the waves will always resurface.

Some will knock you down with hurricane force, drop you to your knees holding the dinner that you’ve burned, a forever failure.  They can derail plans, threaten relationships, and leave you in bed, suffering from the dreaded grief headache.  You will curse these waves.

But others will come and roll over your skin.  Softly, they will come, gentle, a breeze, carried by a familiar scent, a butterfly that lands on your finger, a song on the radio, a dime on the pavement, the feeling that you are not alone when, scientifically, you are. These waves bring an unexplainable comfort with them. 

You may feel the need to apologize for the tears that accompany these waves, but Sweet Sister, learn to embrace them, as I have – the hurricane and the breeze.

Death is final but love will always be carried on in the waves.

Like a pebble dropped into water, disappearing from sight, it’s the ripple we watch, mesmerized. Grieve the loss of the pebble, yes, but learn to love the ripple left behind.

Embrace the waves as they wash over you: curse them, cherish them, but never, ever apologize for them.

I love you.

All The Big Stuff

I wrote, a while ago, actually, on my last trip to Vancouver, about the stark difference between two different doors in my life.  Twice that I stood, consciously and deliberately and opened a door. 

The first door allowed a flood of love into my life. 

The second, a world of hurt. 

Both helped me to grow.

Let’s talk about the first door, shall we? 

At 19, I sat, across the country, on my tiny bed in my dorm room.  My mom, had just hugged me, left, closing the door behind her.  We had spent the day setting up this tiny room together.  I was ready for her to go but not quite sure what it would look like when she did. 

After a few moments, I took a deep breath, stood, and opened the door.  I opened it just enough that should someone walk by, they might be able to peek in, allowing me to smile.  This was my plan, to just simply smile.  Sure enough, as other students walked by, they smiled, nodded, and finally someone poked a head in and told me about a pop-up coffeehouse on the green that night.  I was asked if I wanted to join. I pushed down the jet-lagged, homesick feeling, and said “yes.”

That night, sitting on a blanket on the green, drinking coffee and watching the acoustic talents of so many of my peers, I felt at home. 

I found my people, my girls, my tribe. 

These girls, I hang onto today. 

These girls, the ones who have been with me through it all. 

These girls, the ones with whom distance means nothing.

These girls, the ones who made an unofficial pack to be there for all the big stuff with me.

So, here I sit, in an airport, en-route to the city that feels like home for me.  I’m here for it.  I’m here for more “big stuff.”

Gimme it all - all the milestone birthday surprise. Baby snuggles. Coffee. Patios. Shopping. Laughing till my belly hurts.  Gimme all the pure friendship, all the authenticity.  My soul craves “all the big stuff.”

I’m here for it - “all the big stuff.”

My Muse

Before you departed, you asked if I would write for you, making you my muse for a moment. I said of course I would, such a task is easy.  You are a wonderful muse.

Writing you is as easy as writing me. In you, I see pieces of myself as well as her.

You’re:

Silly

Wild

Free, and

Spontaneous

Those characteristics, combined, creates a soul who jumps, feet together, into puddles, and into life. Two feet, failure is not an option, only a lesson.

I see you, as I remember myself, as I watched her do it. Tiny red rainboots, muddy dress, skinned knees, tangled hair from the warm wind and summer rain, running towards the end of the driveway where the depression from the tires have allowed the rainwater to collect.  Into this puddle we jump, red boots together, creating the biggest splash a 4 year old can muster.  Soaking, we turn our face to the rain and laugh from the depths of our belly.  We are alive in everything that we do.

It’s a beautiful existence, jumping in with both feet.

But sometimes you’ll feel failure. You might not stick the landing, as a result, the fall hurts that much more.  This reality, however, doesn’t change your form, it’s the same every time and in every avenue – two feet, tightly together…and jump.

Every landing that you stick is that much more fantastic in nature. For you, there is no score of 5/10. Those of us who jump like this are awarded no part marks for effort.  We stick the landing or we fall flat on our face.

Both are landings, both add value:  When executed perfectly, the high is outrageous and infectious.  But when we fail, well, our face is in the puddle and everyone seems to be watching for the splash.

My People

An unexpected package was on my porch today.  I held it in my hands and turned it over, thinking of everything I’ve ordered online recently.  I have been known to shop online in the middle of the night as a way to stay awake while at work but this, from the bookstore, doesn’t jog my memory. 

I grab it on my way into the car, open it, and am instantly brought to tears. It’s from one of my people, the people in my world who think of me, and act.  She knew I was struggling, suggested a book, and when I blew her off, said I was too busy to read, she sent it anyways.  Perhaps I didn’t need the book as much as I needed to remember who my people are.

My people are the ones who act – they send the book.  

They call and facetime, because it’s warmer than a text.  They move their clients to fit with my days off.  I wake to photos of their kids, and have a good day messages, unflattering salon selfies, and videos of noodles being slurped. 

They remember my hard days, 11 years later.  I don’t know if they have to written somewhere or if my hard days are hard days for them too.  Either way, they remember, and act.  They keep my stuff tight but bring it out after a few drinks.  They know the ins and outs of me, and we laugh, from our bellies, once it’s moved into a funny, but never before.  They know that timeline without fail. 

They make me coffee when I pop in, and I pop in a lot.  My people made me dinners after every baby.  I didn’t cook for weeks on end after each birth.  Still to date, when they’ve made too much, extras show up at mine. Grapefruit in bulk gets split and half ends up with me. 

My people send me songs on the regular.  They think, Virginia would like this, and they act.  It’s simple but sometimes that song winds up on repeat and it might just be everything I needed on that particular day.  We drive, wild, song for song to the beach in the late fall.  My people say yes to fried chicken from the other side of town, because I want it and they trust it will be worth it. 

They love the way I walk in their homes, shoes off, arms open.  My style is not only appreciated, but I am told when it is missed.  My people tell me when they miss my presence in their homes, around their children.  I sit in their shops, an unpaid employee for the day at the counter, fed salami sandwiches when I get hungry.  My people like having me around, I never question if I’m too much.

We go consignment shopping together.  More importantly, if I can’t go, I know the things that have my name all over it will still get purchased.  I never miss a deal, even if I am not physically there. 

My people fly to see me and my children, they are at all big stuff without fail.  They wake early to get scones because they are my favourite.  They know the exact way I say their name determines my level of stoned.  My people know the things about me, they remember, and act:

They send the book, the book that I say I am too busy to read, and they remind me who my people are.

The Reply

Every year, at Christmas, I write to you.  Inside the envelope I include photos, photos of our growing family.  I know that this envelope will find its way into your hands, your aging hands, and bring a smile to your face.  However, every year that passes, as I drop the envelope in the mailbox, I pray a little harder that it is you who writes back.  A month later, when I see your name on the reply, I sigh a sigh of relief. 

We cannot escape the years that have past, nor the many, many years that lie between us.  Even then, 15 years ago, we referred to you as our Japanese grandmother.  Twice, sometimes, three times a week we’d spend time with you.  Like a true grandmother, your treats were predictable and appreciated; fresh bread on Tuesday, beer for Reuben, and the most delicious hotel omelette and iced coffee on Wednesdays.  We’d spend afternoons together; once a week with just me, once a week with just Reuben, and once a week the three of us would dine together.  I don’t know what I loved most - the days I could explain to you my upbringing and ask about yours or our time as a threesome, when you’d laugh your infectious laugh at how our modern-relationship worked.  You’d pry into the details and marvel at my strength as a woman and Reuben’s progressiveness as a man.  Little did you know, I still marvel at yours - wife of a doctor, mother, continual student, friend, and Japanese grandmother to a handful of lucky foreigners in Ube, Yamaguchi, Japan.

So, this year, when I opened my mailbox and saw your family name I smiled.  It was short-lived, however, because beside your family name was your husband’s name.  Replaced was your beautiful penmanship that I have gotten to know so well with more masculine calligraphy. I held it together with the mail in my hand until I walked in the door.  Reuben and I opened it and read your husbands words together.  Tears instantly flooded the page.  Cancer.  Last fall.  He’s grief stricken.  How will he live without you? How will any of us? 

Toshiko, my Japanese grandmother, you will be greatly missed, continue to be spoken of often in our home.  Today, I grieve.  Today, I remember that infectious smile, kind manner, and inquisitive mind.  You opened your heart and your home to two twenty-somethings and while it was an odd friendship, it was one that we hold so very dear.

Sayonara, Esato-San.

The Pieces

Take this time and put it all back together

Every missing piece, find it, and pop it back into place

Make lists, feel productive

Wake up early and tackle the day

Put your fucking phone down and take the time, here

Where you need to be.

Right fucking here

Make some muffins, watch their little faces as they devour them

Fuck on the floor, kiss hard and connect again

Put it all back together

Walk in the woods

Create

Sleep, without the news, without the phone

Sleep, albeit drug induced

But sleep

Grow

Learn

Tackle the hard stuff

Move through it all with kindness

Sadness and kindness

It’s possible to be both sad and kind

To lament on the way it was

While rejoicing in all that remains

Rejoice

Celebrate the victories

Grab the book, let him read to you

Recording it only in your mind.

Make a coffee and sit, uninterrupted

Grab the puzzle from the cupboard

Take this time to put it all back together

Every missing piece, find it, and pop it back into place

Fuck It

I wouldn’t say I had a walk-in closet growing up.  But, my closet, in our tiny post-war bungalow was the biggest, and, my tiny body could walk into it.  So, in effect, I had a walk-in closet.

I tell you this because I want you to glean the approximate size from my words; bigger than standard, but not big. 

There were times, well beyond the fort-making stage of childhood, that I sought refuge in the closet.  I would toss my blankets in there after an argument with my parents, friend, or crush, and, with my tiny light, would read, write, and sleep inside. 

I know this stressed my mom out.  I remember her desire to dig into my psyche - Why are you in the closet? Is everything okay?  I had no idea why I was in there.  I just knew that it felt safe.  Smaller.  Or maybe it was because I felt larger.

After Penelope died, I did it again.  I saw Reuben off to work and spent the day in our tiny apartment bathroom wrapped in blankets.  It was comfortable by only my definition.  I’ve made beds on the floor, between the bed and wall, in closets, and bathrooms.  I knew it was odd, but again, never questioned, shared, or worried too much about it.

My son has started doing the same recently. His world, dramatically changed, and he seeks comfort on the ground.  I snuggled the shit out of him on the floor the other night. I didn’t press him, as my mother used to press me, to understand the why, rather, I grabbed a few extra blankets and joined him.  We talked about nothing at all, but I was right there with him, finding comfort on the ground in cozy spot. 

I’d peg my mental health as very good but recently my bed has felt really good. 

I’d peg my mental health as very good but I’m eating like shit

I’d peg my mental health as very good but the texts I actually reply to are dwindling.

I’d peg my mental health as very good but sweats and stained t-shirts are becoming the norm.

I’d peg my mental health as very good, but I’d love to cozy up on the floor of my closet and shut the world out.

But I can’t, because I’m a mom. 

I’m a mom and as I come upstairs to find my middle child sleeping in a strange spot on the hallway floor, I realize that he feels it too.

I’d peg his mental health as very good but right now, it’s slipping. 

He has been struggling to sleep,

eating worse,

missing friends,

wearing PJ’s all day, and now,

 sleeping on the floor of the hallway. 

I’m watching us slip and struggling to hold on.  More often than not my answer is fuck it.  I’m putting mental health above other things that I value: eating right, looking good, school, the schedule, being a good friend.  Fuck it, I’ll eat the kids left over chicken nuggets.  Fuck it, no one is going to see me anyways.  Fuck it, we are done school for the day.  Fuck it, we have nowhere to be.  Fuck it, I’ll text back later.  While I grasp at mental health, the rest slips.  It’s an impossible balancing act for me. 

I’m cautious to even post something on Covid-19 as it certainly is a hot-button topic.  We are all impacted, differently and severely.  I’ve already lost one friendship because of word choice.  Covid-19 word choice buried a friendship of 24 years.  You know what I said?  Fuck it. I post this because I think it’s important to recognize when you’re slipping.  When the world feels too big and you are craving the comfort of a blanket fort.  Recognize what you are and aren’t capable of.  Talk to family, friends, and management, about where you’re at emotionally.  Take some things off your plate and put your mental health above it all.  Find the things, and places, that bring you comfort. 

And, if that’s a blanket in the hallway with your 8-year-old, I say Fuck It, let’s get cozy, buddy!

Reflections on a Decade

A decade ago, I sat on a chair by the front door of our new home, busting with life.  From this chair I directed our friends as they moved box after box into this new home.  I had no idea what this decade was going to hold but I knew it would involve bringing you safely into this world, making this house a home, and growing this family.  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how blessed I’d be 10 years later.  There has been, in my life, no greater decade than this one.

This decade has seen me grow more than I could ever have imagined.  You helped me do that.  Much like the sea glass that you bring to me, beaming, at the beach, I’ve softened around the edges.  With your help, I’m softer, kinder, patient, and more understanding.  The green sea glass is my favourite, and even though it’s simply the remnants of Heineken bottle, we act like it’s a rare jewel, because you never know.  I hold your find in my hand, turning it over, feeling its softness.  I wonder about the timeline of your treasure; how long has this piece been in the water?  How long as it taken for this piece of shattered glass to become a jewel in my daughter’s eyes?

We were gifted a piano shortly after moving into this house.  Working to create a home, we placed it in the living room.  I decided a long time ago that music would always fill my home. Fuck the TV. I want to dance in the kitchen forever; I grab you as you walk by and sing awkwardly to your friends as they come into the kitchen for water.  I have a photo of you at 18 months climbing this piano.  You were near the top and neither of us were afraid.  Rather than grabbing you and safely placing you back on the carpet, I grabbed the camera, capturing the moment.  It was like I knew I was capturing your tiny spirit in that one simple photo.  You hold no fear.  In that moment you showed me that you could do it and I showed you that I believed in you.  We took this spirit through the decade.  Let’s take it into the next as well.

You’ve made friends with ease, never hesitating to just introduce yourself and asking for what you want from a young age.  Do you want to be my friend? In the last decade this boldness has served you well, take this with you as well.  I’ve liked every single pick you’ve made in the last ten years.  You follow your instinct and chase kindness.  My heart swells with each friend that has entered our home. They sit at my table and I talk to them.  Knowing them and understanding why you choose them helps me to learn you.  As you grow, exploring the neighbourhood now with your friends, I get less time with you but more time to witness your interactions with others.  I couldn’t be prouder.  You are a good friend; each one lucky to have you.

And, at the end of the day as we snuggle having our much-desired girl time you say, without fail, Mom, can I tell you something? To which I reply, Baby, you can tell me anything.  This is our standard question and answer, verbatim every time.  Verbatim, every time.  My goal is that perhaps after a decade my words are so deeply engrained that you’d never hesitate to bring the big stuff to me.  As we move into the next decade, if you take one thing with you, it’s baby, you can tell me anything.

So, on this day, the close of the greatest decade, I feel reflective: I wonder at what point my edges softened? At what point did I become a jewel in your eyes?  The answer: It took time.  It was a slow, and sometimes, painful process.  So slow that I didn’t even see it happening, yet, ten years later, it feels like I could have blinked and missed it.  Every day was busy watching you climb and be bold and every night, exhausted, we snuggled and talked.  We moved this way, as the tide does, every day for the last decade, softening my edges.

One Last Errand

I knew you were gone before the confirmation came.

I knew you’d do me the favour but was so hesitant to ask.

I knew as your name washed over me that you had a hand in this.

Grandma

I wake from my dream, rattled, and feel you near.  Your name washes over me and I feel you near.  To my knowledge you are still with us, for I haven’t been told yet that you slipped away during the night. 

The dream:  I stand, on one side of a dirty glass pane.  The sun shines through, obstructing my view of a little girl on the other side.  I stand, feet firmly planted and twist my head every way imaginable to get a better view of the cloudy image of her.  This is my dream, the one I cling to, the one I hope to return to, the one that you gave to me as you slipped into the unknown. 

Thank you, Grandma, I say under my breath as I come to my senses.  I lay in bed and try to slip back into sleep.  It’s gone.  I’m unsuccessful.

I resign to the fact that once a dream is over, there is no going back. I get up, get dressed, and begin my day: coffee, toast, teeth, hair in a top knot.  I’m out the door before I know it to run errands, making a stop at my mama’s house. 

By the time I arrive, I have shaken the dream free and when, a few hours later, I am sitting in my childhood kitchen, I don’t even notice the sadness in my own mother’s face.  How did I not pick up on the fact that your world had just been ripped from you in the night?  How did I not see that in your eyes, mama?

I start in on the dream.  Tell my mama about the dirty glass, the little girl on the other side, I’m certain of two things: firstly, this little girl is mine and secondly, grandma had a hand in this. 

I notice your tears and assume that they are happy tears for this is the first dream, I tell you, in which she’s ever come to me. I disclose that I have wanted to go up to the hospital to see grandma to ask her, as she lay on her deathbed, to do me a solid and send my baby through. I was trying to find the words to both acknowledge her impending death and my selfishness in it.  How does one ask for this favour?  I couldn’t find the way to do it, so I didn’t.

Tears stream down your face, mama, as you tell me that grandma is gone.  Her soul left last night.  You were with her; she was not alone.  Then you tell me that you, my mama, asked her to do me that very solid as she slipped away.  You leaned over her, telling her that you loved her, and, before she left, you asked her to send my baby through to me. 

And, she followed through. 

I often think about where we go, how it works, and who is there waiting for us. I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of you, Grandma, delaying the process while you complete just one errand. You scan the faces waiting for you; family, friends, and lovers all gone long before. You tell them to wait, finding the smallest one, wrapping your warm arms around her and ushering her back through to me. 

And like a long line of women before me, you were selfless, even in death.

I feel you sometimes, Grandma. 

This morning I feel you.

I feel you as I sit, type-typing away on my back deck. 

You are missed, you are loved, you will never be forgotten.

Thank you, Grandma

School Year, 2020

To My Children on the Last Day of School:

This year, on the last day of school, I hope that you have learned:

-      Not everything goes as planned.  Quite often, a wrench will be thrown into your life and it’s up to you to turn that into something manageable, doable, and perhaps even better.

-      Fractions.  Yes, they seem stupid when you can’t wrap your head about changing an improper fraction of 4/3 to the proper 1 and 1/3 but is very useful when making mama’s delicious banana bread.    

-      Number lines are stupid and cross-multiplication is bomb.  Perhaps you should keep that knowledge to yourself and in September do it whatever way your teacher asks for you to do it, (that very well could be yours truly again).

-      Back to the Future is cinematic perfection and 1.21 gigawatts is super-fast.

-      Sacrifice and selflessness are part of our moral code. Sometimes we must give up what we want for the betterment of someone else. This lesson will serve you well should you learn it properly.

-      It’s important to wash your hands and cover your mouth.  This has always been important, sometimes we just need reminders.

-      Murder hornets are real. They are called susumebachi in Japanese and mom had a close encounter with one in Japan while teaching. 

-      Bridge to Terabithia is the best children’s novel – you’ll never convince me otherwise.  If I were a better teacher, I would have made you write a book report telling why you think so too, but I’m not, and I didn’t. 

-      Nothing beats a good forest adventure (just remember the snacks).

-      Skateboarding is cool. 

-      Sometimes it’s okay to break the rules if you need to break the rules.

-      Black lives matter.

-      Protesting and rioting occurs when inequality is so blatant that the world is outraged.  Be outraged with the world when something is unfair.  Make a sign and stand tall. 

-      It’s a luxury to wake up when your body wakes and fall asleep when you’re tired.  You may not have this often in life so on the days that you do, be so very thankful for this internal alarm that regulates you.

-      Pets are work and kittens poop a lot. 

-      Monopoly is a microcosm of real life. Paying taxes suck but we shouldn’t cry about it because on your next turn you may very well strike it rich (and pay more taxes for the rest of the game).

-      When the world is too much, feels too much, or appears scary, your world is here, within these four walls.  It is my job to create a safe haven for you and  my greatest hope is that you have learned this and shall never forget it.

I Can't Breathe

When I get angry, I break shit.

It’s not pretty and I hate that I let things build to the point in which my anger, rage, and frustrations get taken out irrationally, but it’s a part of me. A beautiful part of me.  You’ll know when I’ve had enough, when my boundaries have been so violated that something else takes over to let you know just how far past that line you’ve gone.

Destruction out of frustration started for me early.  Maybe I was born with it? Maybe we all are?  I can remember clenching a pencil in my tiny hands and drawing big dark circles on the page in my journal until that page ripped, under the constant pressure from my pencil. I’d keep going, around and around, with my HB pencil, tears staining the pages, making them easier to rip under my pencil tip. Sometimes, I’d shred through a dozen or more pages before my arm tired and my tears dried.  I’d collapse into my lead dust, exhausted. 

Fuck, that felt good. 

Soon, I realized how good the sound of a smash felt.  Picture frames of boyfriends, vases, plates, phones.  I’m lucky I have anything breakable left after burying a baby.  I never hurt a soul with my rage, that was never the intention of the break.  Rather, the break was attached to how broken I felt, a visual representation of my soul in the moment.  I’d stand, when the rage ended, over shattered pieces, breath escaping me.  I don’t know who it was for, the display of anger, because it was never put on for others.  I guess, in effect, It was just for me.  Look at this, look at how broken you are.  Fucking clean it up!

Fucking clean it up. 

Perhaps this is where the cathartic part of rage comes in -  the tidying.  Put it all back together, better than before.  Rip out the pages from the journal, toss them in the fire, smooth the cover, and place it back on the shelf.  That journal will never remain the same, and neither will I.  This isn’t always a bad thing.  Sweep the glass from the floor -and, if you are lucky enough, you will have someone to hold the dustpan for you, someone who doesn’t judge and who is there to remind you that it is time to rise up.

So, I get it.  I’m not judging, and I hear you.  I rage with you.  I watched the video, horrified like everyone else.  A man’s life was extinguished under the knee of an officer of the law while others stood guard, while others watched, hopelessly, their cries falling on deaf ears.  It’s inconceivable that the pleas of the bystanders fell on the same deaf ears.  He can’t breathe.

Now we all can’t breathe.

So, rage on.  I get it.  Don’t hurt anyone. Show the world how hurt you are, how broken the system is.  And, when the time comes, lets fucking clean it up.  Everyone needs to clean this up. I’ll be standing there with the dustpan.