I find myself writing during some of the most
stressful times
of life.
We just moved.
So that earns a post.
But really, there's something even worse.
I sit here tonight, in a temporary home, beside boxes of school supplies which will be dispersed to a school I'm not even sure my kids will be attending long. And I can begin to feel
the ache.
It sits in the base of my neck, right above my collar bone and sends fleeting jabs into my stomach. The ache that comes with sending the most important people in my life away from me all day long. Of schedules. And homework. And tweeny drama. And team commitments. And time. It's not really my time anymore. And I think that, more than anything, is what makes me ache.
I'm pretty selfish with my time.
Especially with them.
I've learned to hold on tight.
And to be selfish.
Because selfish time brings magical moments.
Bare toes in sand.
Giggles on rollercoasters.
Little fingers in my hands.
Water ballons.
Early morning runs.
Basketball with neighborhood kids.
Road trips.
Sweaty toddlers on my back.
Fireworks.
Rubbing sunscreen on little bodies.
Parades.
Campfires.
Giggles behind closed doors.
Rollerblades.
But I guess it's just not all about me. So I'll keep hanging tight to the time we do have and work on dissipating this ache.
That's it exactly. That they have to go out in to the world. Why can't we just stay here at home, with them, forever?
ReplyDeleteI don't want the fact of this comment to be weird, but I did want to tell you how expertly you have joined poetry, poignancy, and prose in this real-life piece. I hope you have managed to massage out that ache in the last six years. Anyway, well done.
ReplyDelete