Anew

Some weeks ago my dear child began to wave. He says hello to himself in the mirror after bath time, waves to the trees on our evening walks, and excitedly throws both hands at his father when he comes downstairs in the morning. The oatmeal flings from his little fingers as he teaches his dad how to greet the day. Then last week, E began to open doors. He’s desperate to pull down the handle and hear the hinge creak and see what is out of sight. He teaches us about pure curiosity and how the tiniest little normalcies can be a complete delight.

In the coming days, we will board a plane for the first time as a family and go abroad. E will be fascinated as he hears the engine start up and sees the big wings. Just imagining his little hands against the window as we move through the clouds and across country lines gives me a feeling of wonder and fear. We will be the family boarding first and responsible for the baby eyes peering at the passengers seated behind. This is a stark distance from my previous chapter of life where I was a woman alone. I am now a we and it is us who will be walking up and down the aisle with a baby on the red eye while others try to sleep. We will chase our baby’s wobbly legs through the terminals, past custom officials and through the duty free. It will be newness for all of us: toddling E, T.J., and me.

Together we will fly to Poland, a former home I’ve avoided returning to for the past four years. I haven’t been back since Danuta, my mother-in-law, died. And this trip is intentionally coming at the start of what I have always referred to as grief season—the stretch of time between August and September where the calendar is consumed by dates and anniversaries that hark back to the past. The most important of those being September 29 which this year will mark 10 years, a full decade of life, since Sergiusz (Danuta’s son and my first husband) died. We are going to Poland so I can introduce T.J. and Emet to a life I once lived, at least the shell of it.

As I pack, I imagine the stroller struggling on the cobblestone streets and feeling the humid August heat. I imagine passing time in the cafes, bars and grassy spaces where I once sat to write monologues of memory. I think about finding familiar foods that will feel new and seeing E’s face light up at the animated clock in the Old Town Square where goats dance every day at noon. There are images not yet lived frozen in my mind, borrowed scenes from pictures I’ve taken in the past. But mostly, and most intimately, I’m daydreaming about what it will be like to visit this storied place without the primary filter of war or grief.

I haven’t had much time to write about returning to Poland. Just the process of buying the tickets felt dramatic and worth a novel to myself. And I haven’t had time to think much about the complex guilt I carry for the gratitude I have for the life I live now. I am sure most widows will understand that, even if just a little. I haven’t had time to revisit old pictures and remember the forgotten details of those who have died. And it’s not because I don’t want to, it’s just that I’ve never been more tired and distracted than I am these days. So while I’ve been quiet on paper, life has been loud in my head. I’ve cried more in the past few weeks than I have in years. And the tears have not been born out of anger or conflict, nor from joy. It’s just that having a baby and a family of my own has cracked open a dam of emotion previously held tight behind pages upon pages of well constructed words.

So while T.J. and I are anxiously preparing with all the questions new parents have—How many snacks do we pack? Do we bring a carseat? Do we finally put shoes on his 10-month-old feet?—E is gleefully dragging pots on the kitchen floor and making beats with the cabinet doors. He has no idea what this trip means for me. And there is relief in that as well as a lesson. Even though parenthood is proving hard like everyone said it would be, I appreciate that most of the demands on my time aren’t about the past.

This chapter of life is asking for a different type of presentness from me. So instead of writing, I spend the extra minutes of my day watching my child laugh with abandon at the mundane. Yesterday he thought my ponytail was hilarious as I kept it just out of his reach. And as I was folding clothes earlier this week, he discovered the toilet bowl is full of water. His love of opening and closing the seat matured into immense pleasure at sticking his hands in. Faster than I could move to stop him, he triumphantly splashed himself with a most satisfied smile adorned by the streaking afternoon light. It’s all contagious—that unfiltered wonderment of life. And I’m just so grateful and don’t at all feel guilty for taking his perspective. His great gift to me right now is that I get to inherit his innocence and naïveté. He is teaching me how to wave at familiar places and faces like they are anew.