I’m writing this on a transition day.
The title probably won’t fit the context and I’ll probably forget to change it.
Like making someone a playlist, my heart is on my sleeve with subtext, but will it live up to its name?
The boys head back to their dad’s as is our schedule and the silence feels unwelcoming. It feels overwhelming and I just miss them the most on these days. Everything is significantly harder on these days and two years into this whole thing, it has not gotten better even with more time together. Everyone tells me it gets better, but what I know is in this season of life, their absence is vast like the ocean. The people I love, none of them are here.
As much as I love my alone time, I miss the boys laughter and fighting and mostly, the cuddle puddle pile we have in the morning when I am sandwiched between their bodies. A on one side, Bear close to me in the middle. A tangle of limbs and warmth on three-quarters of a queen sized bed. I can feel their hearts beat in the same rhythm as mine and I can’t help but wonder if in these cuddle puddles, some deep part of us syncs up. Do our hearts sync up with the ones we love them more time we spend together? All I know is, my hearts outside my body and I all beat at the same pace on their morning before they go and Bear outlines the triangle on my wrist in a sleepy manner that tells me everything and nothing.
I wrote a piece just the day before about these piles and while I am hesitant to share, I know this is what it is for:
Their warm bodies scuffling mine— this is what I live for
legs tucked between mine and tiny hands intertwined with my curls.
One, not so big, takes up half the bed.
One, nearly my size, a small man but still a child.
I scoot out of the middle, delicately— so I don’t step on anyone
or disturb their dream state.
In the kitchen, I light the Palo Santo, place it in the hallway
between our two rooms, chasing any bad dreams away.
I light the smoke bundle from Far West Texas, a remaining gift,
blow on it to stokes the embers,
this sits outside my office, keeping whatever pours from my heart
from leaking out into the rest of the house.
I make coffee quietly, these rituals hold me
even when they are not here, even when the only one to protect is me—
from the nightmares, from the sadness, from the missing the pieces of my heart—
their soft snores make it to my ears in the hallway before I tuck in to write.
The lamp, also from Far West with it’s great story (ask me sometime),
illuminates the small room and I put pen to page.
This 950 sq foot rectangle holds more affection for each other,
disappointment in ways life plays out, frustration with our humanness,
tears over the struggles, and grief over what has happened
and people who leave than I could ever have asked for,
it holds us together, it hold me alone.
I scribble away, pouring words out as poetically as I can,
until the first sounds of silliness reaches my ears.
then and only then, do I put it all away and hold them close to me.
Mother when they are with me, even when they are away,
but learning to live not just as mama,
but as woman, as heart and soul having a human experience,
as if I only get to be here once (as me, yes I do).
Do it for them, yes, but do it for you too.
The tears are just below the surface throughout the day and I cry in the bathroom at the bookshop because I can’t be home in the silence. I am missing too much and crying in this place that feels like a second home doesn’t feel right either, but behind the locked door, I let the release valve of my heart go and cry.
I’m tired, dear reader, of writing about sad things, about hard things. I know “toxic positivity” is a bad thing AND also, I’m just ready for good things to happen. They are happening. So many good things ARE in fact happening, it’s just also the grief of missing my people.
I see that I am a woman searching. And remembering that I am the creatrix of this vision I call life.