Had a true, long weekend, and I fell into it face-first. Long sleeps, mini-naps, re-arranging bookshelves, watching Netflix and eating chili.
Which made coming back into the world today especially difficult. Honestly, it’s left me without clear thoughts or ideas. For me, borders between the work week and weekend are more defined than ever these days.
I’m waiting for the double-cure. White wine and red. Clean hands in gloves. Babies in arms. Jesus and Mary.
Thundersnow hit the city around 5:30 this morning, which was about the same time I realized this thing about being family.
D has a chest cold. He’s all coughs and sighs, and I was up and down with him all night. At one point in the early morning, I thought about how as a kid my mom would sit with me all night when I was sick. I’d always felt a mix of love and chagrin back then, when I was the taker.
And now I’m understanding, being in that role of caregiver to D, that sitting up through the night is such a simple, even good, practice. I know someone well enough to tell you when he’s asleep and breathing clouds or kicking through water. It’s a pleasure.
While I was thinking about this, I jumped. A huge clash of thunder shook the bed. I went to the window to look out and all at once I was a wounder, a wanderer, and a healer.
The passing from lighter to darker days doesn’t have a sound so much as a scent. The lessoning of light smells like someone else’s burning clove, fresh ground coffee, freezer burnt vegetables; it’s the rubber on the bottom of a new shoe, a jug of sour wine, a moth-balled sweater. It’s like breakfast for dinner, waking up before sunrise and leaving work after sunset.
Everybody’s touching everybody else’s head, as if to say, “Think along with me. Get ready. These short days are going to happen so that the rest can feel long. And if you need it, you can always find a loop of light inside a clear bulb, whiter than the triple e icing on top of a Hostess cupcake.”
