In a little less than a week my daughter will turn 4. I think of where I was when I started this newsletter, desperate to hold on to the days, what words she was saying, what I was working on, proving that I was still a writer, and where I am now, so much of the days slip through my fingers.
(Order the sprinkles / Buy felt / Get needle and thread.)
And now I miss those early days of just noticing. Of how summer is just that - the beswick wren, the bullfrog going on the pond, the sweet peas blooming, my mother standing on tip toe to pick the only two ripe blackberries. Starting our day at 4 am, arriving at the airport, the mountains on display, my daughter dropping the top of one of her marker’s and making the man sitting next to me laugh to himself because she said Well I guess it’s just gone now. And she was not wrong. Then starting our day at 5:30 am, stumbling out of the depth of a dream, my daughter so alive, my night so full of death. And whenever we are here, I dream of a carpenter, in the eaves of a film set. I dream of a film set. I dream I am a director (again.)
The sun setting so late in the evening, I make grilled cheese and slice peaches, I lay out a tablecloth, I pit cherries, and crisp kale, I order the only pasta my child is allowed to eat to be delivered in bulk, I hear from (dare I say it) my producer, I forget about the list I made of films I want to see, I fight with my daughter, sitting at her feet, and then she falls asleep, my arm pulled around her, her heart underneath my hands. This morning waking at 6:30 am an hour just a little bit easier to handle, so we don’t even cuddle and read, we just get up, and she plays, while I make coffee and decide on oatmeal. The cat biting everyone, drawing blood from a shin. My period which I have been waiting on, finally arriving. There is a Clydesdale in my window, and I put on The Band, turning down Cemetery Road.
These days I will never get back, these days we will never get back, that I am so filled with gratitude in the Thriftway as the boys bag the food I can afford, trying to separate them into the right categories, lentils and cabbage, milk and yogurt, chips, and bread. I ask for a cupcake recipe from my girlfriend, and we drive down to the beach, looking for starfish and finding one solitary one, no longer viable. A man telling my mother he was looking for petrified wood in the sea. Reports of humpback whales to the south. And there is a scent I can’t quite place, I have been meaning to ask, what is this that fills the air? It is so sweet - and green. Stopping for bread, opening a book.
My favorite thing my daughter has said recently was I love the ballet performance because I like to dance in the night on the stage. (And I think, God help us.)
Some essays you might have missed:
What is wrong? I ask my husband when I come home from running errands. Heating a bowl of soup and eating a whole tangelo peeling the rind off in one spiral. My husband looks in grief, ashen and as if the wind has been knocked out of him. I am just waiting to find out if he’s going through with it.
It feels insane to have to write this, to have to say - that if you read these essays and you like them, hitting the little “like” / heart button at the bottom of the essay, or leaving a comment, or sharing the piec…
The morning comes
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.