Bowling For Easter

Bowling for easter

I almost forgot Easter. It didn’t occur to me until the Monday before. Of course, my second thought was “If you hadn’t stopped going to church you would have known that.” That second thought is always a bitch.

I called my daughter, Jennifer, immediately. Her son, Elijah, is the only member of our family young enough to qualify for a hunt and a basket. I was somewhat relieved to hear he was spending Easter with his Dad. I’d miss spending time with him, but at least he didn’t have to know I’d forgotten Easter. I mean, who does that?

I toyed with the idea of getting the decorations down from the attic. By this time in years past, the branches on the dogwood out front would have begun to droop, ever so slightly, thanks to the pull of dozens of brightly-hued plastic eggs. I especially like to use the mirrored eggs. It pleases me to know that everyone, even drivers circling our cul-de-sac at night, is treated to a flash of springtime color. As I reached for a hand towel in the bathroom, I remembered the Easter towel that should have been there…the one with the puffball sewn on where the bunny’s tail would be. I imagined climbing the attic stairs…over and over again…and then repeating the process in the opposite direction in just a few days. And that settled that.

For the first time in my life, there would be no family get-together at Easter. It would just be me and my youngest son, Shane. I vacillated between guilt at not having arranged a more festive holiday for him, and excitement that we could do whatever we wanted without worrying about anyone’s schedule, or what to cook, or cleaning up or…anything. This Easter was ours to do as we saw fit.

By Thursday, I still hadn’t formulated a plan…and I was okay with that. Spontaneity has always been my friend. After all, hadn’t I been counseled, just the other day, that surrender is the key to happiness? I surrendered Easter, and within minutes Jennifer texted me with the news that Elijah was coming home on Saturday.

Easter was on again.

Having already nixed the decorations, moving dinner to a restaurant in another town was an easy decision. My daughter chose a restaurant my grandson would like. Fortunately, it was one of those places that have something for everyone. Nothing was actually good, but everything was basically edible.

I had placed an assortment of candies and gifts on the table before anyone else arrived. When the waitress reminded us to visit the dessert bar, my oldest son, Josh, produced a Reese’s egg and said, “I’ve got dessert.”

I held up my hand in a bid for attention.

“This is just the first part of our Easter celebration!”, I teased.

Five pairs of eyes stared back at me with expressions of wary incredulity.

“We’re going bowling!”, I announced.

Other than a couple of gasps the group was silent, and at least two pairs of formerly wary eyes now held something resembling fear.

“I don’t know…”, Josh began while retrieving his cell phone from his pants pocket. He pressed a button on the screen. “I’ve got to be somewhere at 3:00.”, he sort of whined. A glance at his phone revealed it was 12:45.

“Okay, then we’ll just bowl one game. We can do that in less than an hour and you’ll still have plenty of time.” I would not be denied.

GPS coordinates were entered while the youngest among us calculated, in short order, how to maximize time in the front seat. Shane slid in beside his older brother while Elijah climbed in next to me. He fastened his seat belt with one hand while reaching for my Ipod with the other.

Thirty minutes later we’d gotten past wondering how many other people had worn our rented shoes before us, and amassed a large collection of ten-pound bowling balls in assorted colors. Elijah would soon bowl three consecutive strikes, providing his contribution to an ever-changing lead. In the end, Josh would out-bowl us despite his earlier complaint, “It’s been years!”

I can’t remember who first suggested we start another game. I do know we all looked to Josh, He of the 3:00 Appointment. Never one to be comfortable with expressions of emotion, he ducked his head to hide a smile that couldn’t be missed.

“It’s alright with me…”, he allowed.

There was some talk of requesting the bumper guards be raised and Elijah, unhappy with his score despite the strikes, launched a search for the perfect ball. Soon, we were heading into the last frame of the second game.

By this time, we’d learned some things. For instance, no one knew until he won the first game that Josh used to own a pair of bowling shoes and a ball. At one time, he’d apparently enjoyed bowling a lot! Elijah taught his mother the “granny roll” even though he was too old to do it himself. And Jennifer’s husband, Chris, paid attention when I shared a tip I picked up in the bowling class I took in high school (Yes! High school! Those were the days…) and used it to win the second game handily. I smiled as I realized I’d been right to trust my instincts. Easter dinner was nice, but it wasn’t enough. We needed time together…fun time…a time to remember.

Two years ago we lost a member of our family. Things have never been the same since, and they never will be. Those precious memories can’t be duplicated but we can make new ones…different ones. We can make the most of what we have left. That’s what he would want us to do. I’ll bet he would have loved bowling for Easter.

Photograph can be found at: http://playandgo.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/kingpin-easter.jpg

Two

I want a cigarette. Bad. I’m sure I could scrounge up a pack if I looked hard enough.

I can taste it. It wouldn’t be menthol. He doesn’t smoke menthol. And it’d be short…much shorter than the ones I used to smoke. I would breathe deep. I’d fill my lungs and then feel the burn as smoke poured out of my nose.

I want a drink. Make mine a whiskey…cinnamon flavored whiskey and coke, please…on ice, of course. I want whiskey at 9:43 in the morning. I want to scorch the back of my throat as it slides down.

Cake would be good. Bakery cake with sticky white icing. A decorated cake…pink flowers…green leaves…no writing, please. And the inside should be yellow and spongy and leave gooey brown goodness on the bottom of the plate when you slice it.

Yesterday morning I looked at myself in the mirror as I dressed for work. My face, despite the artificial glow of carefully applied foundation, bore no expression. Good Morning America played softly in the background as the words “Happy New Year” came to mind.

Only it’s not happy. It’s not happy at all. Not that it’s not ever happy, there are happy days. But this day is not happy. So it’s a new year but not a particularly happy one… so far.

I hadn’t realized this before…this marking of the year that I do in my head. In a way it’s a relief as it serves to explain why January 1st has little to no meaning for me anymore. My year doesn’t begin and end at the same time as everyone else’s. My year ends on February 25th and begins again on the 27th…if I make it.

I leave the “if” in there because I need permission not to. On this day, more than any other, I grant myself permission to consider what would happen if I didn’t. Because, I don’t have to. No one does. Life is a choice we make every day. Someone else said that first, I know. Maybe that person, like me, experienced the capriciousness of life. Maybe they lost someone.

I don’t like to use the word “lost”. I didn’t lose Trey. He died. Actually, if anyone is lost, it’s me. I’m lost. More lost on some days than I am on others, but I’m always lost. I’m navigating a path I never thought to take. And yet, now that I am on it, I often try to imagine what would happen if I had to start all over again. What if I became even more lost? What if the thing that I never thought would happen happened again? Because that is the one thing I do know. The one thing I do know is that the worst does happen.

It’s a gray day, as it should be. It was this way last year, too. I suspect it always will be.

You can’t prepare. It hits you about a week out, without warning. Sadness covers you like a blanket. You feel the weight of it and you carry it around all day until, at last, you can close your eyes and escape. With any luck, sleep takes your blanket and leaves a respite in its place. It might last a day, two days. This year I was lucky, I had a few good days before the words “Happy New Year” appeared as though written in red lipstick on the mirror in front of me. And that was that.

Yesterday my boss’s face appeared over the top of my cubicle.

“Enjoy your time off tomorrow.”

Filled with irrational rage, I stood up and left the space without speaking. A big part of me hopes he realizes sometime today. That same part, the hurting part, the part that I’m allowing to run rough-shod over any and everything today and only today, that part hopes that he feels like a worm when he remembers.

It’s 10:43 now. I’m still in my bathrobe, my hair looks like shit, and I’ve never needed a mani/pedi more in my whole entire life. But, I’m not smoking and the half-empty can of Coke Zero on my desk remains untainted. The jury’s still out on the cake. My son and I are having lunch. He, too, is marking another year. He and my daughter-in-law are choosing the restaurant. I may choose to eat cake.

That’s what today is about; making choices and leaving room…deciding not to smoke, how to dress, what to eat, and whether or not to live. And, I’m leaving room…for tears, irrational emotions…and, quite possibly, cake.

Seen With Joy

I see him in you sometimes.

He lives in yours eyes,

behind your brow,

and in the bridge of your nose where it crinkles when you grin.

He comes with joy.

To Destin, For Dad

My Dad is sick.

That’s never happened.

Just ask him, he’ll tell you.

Well, except for that one time. A seed got trapped in a crook in his colon. I met them in the emergency room…Dad swallowing a hospital bed while Mom looked on…from a distance…clutching her purse, under an expression that begged the question, “What now?”.

As long as I can remember, Dad has prided himself in the fact that he’s never had a headache. In some versions, a headache becomes the “common cold”. No matter. To hear him tell it, he’s had neither.

He’s confrontational and cantankerous and a few other “c” words that, when taken together, translate into “just plain hard to get along with”, and now he’s sick.

When he called, he blamed a hot dog…a foot-long Coney; admittedly, not the kind of thing an eighty-one-year-old man ought to eat. It had to be food-poisoning, he reasoned.

But he didn’t get better. He stayed sick. And common sense will tell you, a hot dog doesn’t have that kind of staying power. Not even a foot-long Coney. Food poisoning comes, tries to kill you and, if unsuccessful, leaves. Three day nausea is something else…something serious…some kind of sickness.

He tells me he’s better.

“But you’re still coming down, aren’t you? I’m still sick! I’m weak!” This, from the man who never had a headache…or the “common cold”…depending on the version.

And, I did come.

And, I brought a sister.

And, we did laundry, and dishes, and we made the bed.

And when Dad said, “You know what sounds good?”, I got my keys.

I visited fast food restaurants I never knew existed and ordered with specificity, because “they never put enough sausage” on the sausage and gravy biscuit.

On Saturday, it occurred to me I’d been “at the beach” for almost an entire day and never seen it…not really. I mean, I’d caught a glimpse between hurricane-proofed monoliths upon our return from the Potato Chips/Malted Milk Balls/Vanilla Ice Cream run, but that was it. I hadn’t really heard it. I hadn’t watched it, and I definitely hadn’t smelled it.

But, I fixed that.

After dinner, I got my chair…the one that still spills a little bit of Myrtle Beach every time I take it out…and I headed for the sand.

On the stairs, a couple stopped me.

“Excuse me! Are you going to have a hurricane here?”

I thought several things at once.

I thought , “They think I’m a local.”(This was kinda cool.)

I thought, “They’re just a young couple on their first night of vacation.”

I thought, “Bless their hearts.”

I shared wise weather anecdotes I’d collected during the preceding 24 hours, before moving to place my chair in a spot that would allow me the best use of Instagram. I know…that sounds silly…but I haven’t quite got the hang of it. I’d love to be able to edit more…

After taking several severely out-of-focus photos, I screwed my chair into place and sunk into it.

To my left, a meaty woman seemed unaware that most of her bottom had escaped her suit.

To my right, two boys flew kites.

The worried couple waded.

White caps rolled in bringing memories…of my mother in a two-piece…red with tiny flowers. And she… so brown…so confident.

And, my sisters, dripping castles.

And, my children, with my grandson.

Jennifer and Elijah, dripping castles just like we did.

And my father…and floats…plastic floats in pastel colors that rolled with the waves…rolled and rolled until…if you closed your eyes, sleep could come…

Learner’s License

My 15-year old is learning to drive. Even as we walked into the DMV to get his learner’s license, I couldn’t imagine sitting in the passenger seat while he piloted my vehicle; my new vehicle, my favorite-car-in-the-whole-wide-world that, even after nine months, boasts bonafide “new car smell”. Just the thought of it made me all jumpy inside. So, I didn’t think of it.

I supplied Shane with a Georgia Driver’s Manual a couple of months before his 15^th birthday. He rifled the pages with his thumb, barely concealing his humor at the thought that he might actually READ the book. However, after pulling an all-nighter with his best friend who had tested several months before and therefore “knew what he was talking about”, Shane scored a 95 on the exam; a fact of which he apprised me even before flashing his paper license.

Though I hadn’t paid attention as we drove in, driving out I realized this particular branch of the DMV was situated at one end of an otherwise abandoned strip mall, meaning the only cars parked were the ones directly in front of the office. In the kind of fit of spontaneity I’m known for, I parked the car and motioned for Shane to change places with me. To his credit, and possibly because it’s not the first time his mother has had some kind of hare-brained notion that required his participation, he jumped out, ran around and slid underneath the wheel as though it were home.

I took the liberty of installing a few virtual stop signs along our route, just to give him practice, as we took several turns around the parking lot. Twice, a car piloted by a “real” driver took advantage of the landlord’s misfortune, by cutting across the painted lines on its way in or out. We both froze. Fortunately, Shane froze on the brake. I took this as a good sign.

We’ve been out several times since then. He’s still a little heavy on the gas when first starting out and corners are a bit tricky, but we did manage to traverse a rather scary intersection without incident on the way to the grocery and back. We took a drive with purpose. I think that’s a big step.

The guilt didn’t start until Monday.

It was a nagging thing. It kind of pulled at me, demanding attention. At stray times, throughout the day, Trey’s face swam into view along with an incident; a time when I felt inadequate, a situation I felt I’d mishandled. I managed to quash them usually. I ran the tape inside my head; the one that says “This is normal. Everyone does this. Don’t let it get you down.”. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard THAT song…

But he kept coming. I remembered the time his father called him a “sissy”, the way he clutched at my leg through my skirt, and the feeling of desperation in knowing what a pitiful shield I made using only my hands. There were rides to school…rides necessitated by Trey’s bad behavior at the bus stop…that seemingly provided fertilizer for arguments he saved for just this opportunity. Eventually, I remembered he couldn’t argue if I didn’t participate. Sometimes, then, we talked.

There were visits with counselors, arguments with his step-dad, and a notebook filled with completed homework he’d never turned in.

These reels played alternately, randomly, for two days before I recognized the catalyst.

I didn’t teach Trey to drive.

The realization startled me at first. How could that be? Who could have taught him? How does such an important phase in a child’s life go unnoticed, unaccompanied by a parent…especially when there’s only one?

That afternoon, I received an email from a friend who always seems to know “when”. She reminded me she’d always listen, and I began writing. About halfway through, the missing pieces fell into place until the whole messy picture became clear and a new mantra began to play inside my head. “You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom. You were not a bad Mom.”

This afternoon, I received a note from Trey’s boss’s wife, Amy. Over the years, she’d grown very fond of him.

“The guys are here today working on Bo’s in ground trampoline. While they were eating lunch, Bo walked up to Mike and so sweetly asked, “Where’s Trey?” Out of the mouths of babes… YOU are NOT forgotten, our precious friend!!”

And, I’m reminded it’s not just me. This isn’t the first time that I’ve discovered, when I’m missing Trey more than usual, I’m not the only one. That knowledge doesn’t make me miss him any less. As a matter of fact, reading Amy’s note took me to a place I haven’t been in weeks. What it does do, though, is remind me he is loved, as am I.

Today, I am thankful for blessings who give you room to grow.

Daddy

Daddy was a large man whose crusty work-boots tracked red mud onto mother’s carpets.

He wore glasses…big ones…with thick black frames. And white t-shirts…

He played football in high school, but tennis courts paved his way to college.

When I was very young, he bowled.

By the time I graduated high school he had traded balls with holes for holes-in-one.

My mother called him “Johnny”, my Aunt calls him “Brother”, and my sisters and I call him “Daddy”. I was forty years old before I heard anyone else call him anything other than “Mister Howell”. Years later it still sounds strange, and just a little disrespectful, to hear anyone besides my mother call him “Johnny”.

Daddy liked to eat. As kids, he introduced us to souse meat and lox-n-bagels, but I drew the line at pickled pig’s feet. Time spent in Korea after Hiroshima expanded his pallet. If he was really, really good, Mom would scramble last night’s fried fish into his eggs.

These days he prefers his fish raw, but little else has changed. Daddy still loves to eat. He finds a way to fit three meals in between the hours of 8 am and 4 pm every day, arriving back at his condominium-by-the-sea before most vacationers have even considered making reservations.

Daddy said things…like, “Don’t ever forget who you are! You’re a Howell!” and “No one is better than you are!”. The manner in which he spoke discouraged questions while imparting pride.

He also said, “Your thighs are big-around as my waist!”, and “You need to leave that boy alone. He’s a queer!”, and “Blacks just naturally run faster than whites. It comes from being chased through the jungle by cheetahs.”

A few years ago, he read every book Carlos Castaneda ever wrote.

Last weekend he took great delight in expounding on his latest theory on consciousness. “Our brains are like radio receivers…”

As a kid, it wasn’t Christmas until Daddy came home. Every Christmas Eve, sometime after 6 and before 9, he stumbled across the threshold, over-sized shopping bags in tow. Mother’s mouth set into a sharp line, as her hands moved ever faster over the food she was preparing for tomorrow’s dinner.

“Put these things under the tree!”, he slurred. Professionally wrapped packages hiding expensive perfume, and too-red, too-small, lacy lingerie were tossed, haphazardly, under the tree. Daddy was home! We could open presents!

It’s still not Christmas until Daddy arrives…only Mom isn’t in the kitchen…and it’s the Sunday before Christmas…and my sister dresses her Dachshunds in elf costumes…and sometimes we watch football.

Sunday is Father’s Day.

Just as we have for the last five Father’s Days, we’ll meet at The Varsity. Daddy will order two all-the-way-dogs, rings, and a coke. At least three of us will vie for the honor of paying his bill. Odds are, my sister will do it. We’ll find four or five unoccupied tables and we’ll push them together. We’ll create our space, just as several other families have done before us. We’ll eat, we’ll talk, we’ll laugh. I’ll take pictures despite my sisters’ protestations. Daddy will open presents, and we’ll go home.

I’ll leave, hoping we can do it again, next year.

Firsts

On Sunday, we’ll spend Easter together… without him. Exactly twenty days later, we’ll celebrate his twenty-sixth birthday…but he won’t be there. Mother’s Day will be different this year.

And so it begins…our year of “firsts”. Life moves on, marked by all the times we stop to celebrate. And we will celebrate. We might even celebrate exactly the way we have always celebrated. And it will still be different.

This Easter we’ll have ham. I don’t usually, but a church group gave me a gift certificate I never got around to using at the time. Jennifer has requested green bean casserole. Joshua looks forward to deviled eggs, and Shane loves strawberry salad. I always made macaroni and cheese for Trey. I cooked the onions right into the cheese sauce so that he never knew they were there. Trey had a thing about onions. This year I’m making bacon/maple scalloped potatoes. I’m sure I’ll make macaroni and cheese again…one day.

Now that it’s almost here, I wish I’d planned something different. I wish I’d invited more people who might have made more noise and filled more space. It’s going to be quieter. Trey loved to laugh…loudly…and it was contagious. Trey was big. He took up lots of space. Come to think of it, Trey took up more space than any number of guests could fill. The space he left cannot be filled and it can’t be covered up by a pretty throw or an extra piece of furniture. It’s a space we’ll have to get used to. We’ll have to move around it…always aware of it…never quite sure what to do with it.

Several times this week, I’ve thought about how much more fun Easter is when spent with children. That’s what we need! We need more children! The wonder and joy of children could fill that space! I’ll share this with my kids. If they start now, we could have one heck of an Easter egg hunt in just a couple of years!

And then the pain flows back in…unexpectedly…on a wish that goes against everything I ever taught my children about safe sex. Trey’s face…his baby face…fills my mind as my heart fills with regret that he left nothing behind.

What I wouldn’t give to see that face again.

30 Days of Gratitude – Sisters

I don’t post a Facebook status every day. Some days I don’t really have a status. Some days, I spend part of the day just trying to decide what my status would be if I really had to have one…which I don’t, of course. I’m comfortable subsisting in a status-less state. After all, I spent the better part of my life without a declared status. Most of that went okay.

Today, and for the next twenty-nine days, I will declare my status on Facebook. I’m calling it Thirty Days of Gratitude.

I participated in thirty days of music. It was fun. It brought back a lot of memories. Memories and music always mix with me.

I got halfway through Project 365, an exercise in posting a photograph every day for a year. My computer went on the fritz somewhere around photo number one-sixty.

I was tempted to join a friend in posting a different, meaningful film everyday for a month…until I remembered I have no memory for titles, or actors names, and only retain tiny snippets of plot that prove to be ungoogleable.

So why not do Thirty Days of Gratitude? One thing’s for sure…I can use the reminder.

Today, I am grateful for sisters. I have three of them. All are younger, some more than others.

Laura and I are eighteen months apart which means sometimes I am two years older, and sometimes I am one year older, but I am always older. Many parenting blogs suggest eighteen months to be an ideal age gap between babies one and two. I’m thinking this estimation is made from the point of view of the parents whose workload, while doubled, isn’t complicated by diversity. Basically, it’s like having another kid along for the ride.

Lower to the ground, though, the view is very different. The competition began the moment she entered the house disguised as a puff of white organza and lasted until, as an adult with children of my own, I realized that with deference comes responsibility. My mother shared things with Laura she never shared with me, but that doesn’t have to be because Laura was her favorite. It might also be because Laura was interested, and a better listener and…well…there.

Today, Laura rarely wears organza, choosing instead easy-to-care-for knits, and scarves. We both like scarves, but we wear them differently. That’s what we are. We are alike, but different. I think that’s why we have so much fun when we are together. Whatever the reason, the years have stripped away all the things that don’t matter, leaving us with our scarves, love for our kids, and the ability to make each other laugh…at most anything.

Holly came after Laura, and we both thought we’d never seen anything more beautiful. Compared to us two tow-heads, Holly, with her chocolate brown eyes and curly locks to match, appeared downright exotic! She had a sweet disposition and a smile to match. I’m willing to bet both Laura and I carry the same image in our heads of Holly as a toddler, standing tall and proud next to the pencil-drawn line on the wall in my mother’s sewing room. She couldn’t have been much over three feet tall.

Holly and I were always the closest of the four sisters. We were the renegades. We smoked and drank and made bad choices in men…and spent hours together on the telephone justifying our misguided decisions. We’re not as close as we once were. She doesn’t know how proud I am of her and the way she set a course for her life and stuck to it. Years ago she told me she wanted to live on a mountain-top, faraway. She does now, and she is surrounded by the things she loves best, animals. I always knew that’s what she would do…what many of us never do. She found happy.

Candi is the youngest. She prefers to be called Candace, but after years of Candy, Candi is the best I can do. Her middle name is Jane, so of course we called her Candy-Jane. Mom even made a song out of it. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I’m not so sure she liked it. I always think we are ten years apart but when I count it’s actually seven. It feels like ten though…

What with the age difference, we didn’t actually play together much as children. I remember worrying about her a lot. I expressed this to our parents and checked on her at night, when she was in her crib.

Even as a girl, I loved to concoct stories. Once when I was about thirteen and Candi was three…no, make that six…I brought her to tears with one of my stories. I remember the mix of feelings; the horror that I’d made my baby sister cry, and the thrill of doing something really well.

Though not evident on the surface, Candi and I are probably the most alike in temperament. We both march to music others don’t necessarily hear. And, we are okay with that. The tunes Candi hears are very different from those that play in my head, and we are okay with that, too.

We live less than thirty minutes apart and only see each other about four times a year. We addressed this issue a couple of years ago by instituting a monthly get-together we referred to as “Sisters”. After about a year, conflicting schedules and, yes, priorities got in the way. What with Holly living on her mountain-top, regrouping will be a challenge, but I hope we’ll find a way to do it…soon. Whether eighteen months, ten years or seven years apart, we’re not getting any younger…

A Face For Hats

Despite the fact I only read it last year, on Tuesday I couldn’t remember the name of one of my very favorite books.

But, on Saturday, burying a hand trowel into earth made forgiving by Spring rains, I remembered being eight and being dubbed “Messy Bessie” by my brownie leader.

I forgot to buy an onion at the supermarket.

But every time I see a hat, or a lady wearing a hat, or even a hat-rack, I remember being twelve and standing in the millinery department at Macy’s. My sister and I were accompanied by my grandmother in what was an annual After-Christmas walking tour of Perimeter Mall. I call it a walking tour because, while occasionally an item was returned, nothing was ever actually purchased.

My sister and I donned hats. Both of us posed in front of mirrors.

“Laura!”, my grandmother called. “Laura, you don’t have a face for hats. You need a plain face to wear a hat.”

There was a slight pause as we looked at one another for an answer to the question neither of us would ask before she provided it.

“Stacye…”, it was a statement. “Now, Stacye has a face for hats.”

At work on Monday, I panicked at the idea of creating a whole new set of contracts, only to discover I’d already done it, weeks before.

Wednesday night, as I reclined against the cold ceramic part of the bathtub not filled with warm water, I remembered John O’Conner turning in his desk to ask in his most sardonic voice “Was that really necessary?”, before I even had a chance to lower the hand I’d raised, in vain, to prevent the burp from escaping my fourteen-year-old lips.

I sometimes struggle to remember which son was born on what date. Although in two different months, their birthdates are just two weeks apart. Which one was born in April and which in May?

And, just the other day, as I pinched dead blooms from pansies’ heads, the image of long, yellow hair swirling around my sister’s snarl flashed across my brain. Anger reddened her cheeks.

“I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything in the world!”, she growled.

The toddler at my feet pressed her back against my legs as instinct tightened my hold on the baby in my lap. We all shrank.

They come in quiet moments, reflections of mis-steps, things I’d rather forget. They’re etched there, burned onto the surface, easy to retrieve. They come unbidden.

They are not who I am but they are, in part, what makes me, me.

>The Office

I used to write in the room that used to be the living room.

On the day his house became our house, My Beloved argued there was no reason to unpack my ten year-old Gateway when he had a perfectly good, practically newborn HP in the living room. The computer sat on an iron and formica contraption that had surely been salvaged from an office whose inhabitants had eventually developed a sense of taste in furniture.

The walls were eggshell. I know this because I made the mistake of calling them “white”. And color was not the only thing of which these walls were devoid. On the ten walls separating the living/dining room from the rest of the house, there was but one attempt at décor. I didn’t know the artist, and there was something about the depiction of sweltering slaves in cotton fields that felt inappropriate in a room where people were expected to eat food. To my credit, I didn’t snatch the print down immediately, but waited instead until I had another rectangular object to put in its place. Nothing was ever said…

Within months, the walls were russet. My great grandmother’s quilt dressed up one side of the room. Depictions of family in various stages of development filled another. The computer was a Dell, dude, and sat upon a massive desk carved from hardwoods and stained a luscious cherry. Across from the desk, a bank of windows looked out upon a suburban cul-de-sac where children might be playing, dogs could be walking, trees changed color, and the occasional student driver eased around the circle testing the patience of those on carefully curbed bicycles. More than once, this vista provided inspiration.

Often, though, the view was skewed by someone passing through.

“Mom? Could you explain the theory of relativity and how it relates to your everyday life?”

Okay, he never actually asked that question, but he may as well have. The first syllable broke my concentration. And, as he posed his question or told his story or vented about a perceived slight, I fought to keep my eyes on his face while my mind wrote sentences I wouldn’t allow my fingers to type.

It was after one particularly inquisitive afternoon that I arrived upon the idea of turning a bedroom into an office, a place with a door, a door that could be closed.

Last week, I moved in. The Navajo blanket that had adorned a wall in the living room of my “Cool Single Mom” duplex lived to hang another day. My desk is small, but large enough to accommodate the pencil canister Shane made in first grade and my favorite pewter candlestick. My antique tables are doilied. Incense burns incessantly. Drawings drawn by a favorite artist fill a wall warmed by twinkle lights.

And the pressure is on…

The act of carving a niche for my writing makes it more important, somehow. Now that an entire room of my house has been set aside for the act, it seems I should be doing it not just more often, but more effectively.

But, I’m not.

I’m not writing. I’m working, and shopping, and baking, and wrapping, and partying, and marveling at my creation. I created a room, and it’s a great room, a room my family has dubbed “The Zen Room”. But sitting inside it I realize that the room, as zen as it is, is but a symbol of another, more important, creation.

I’ve created a home. I’ve created a family. I’ve created a relationship in which my partner allows me to dance to the music I hear even when he can’t hear it.

No walls were built and the boundaries, such as they are, drew themselves.

2010 will be remembered as the year I finally found the wisdom to shed that which is unnecessary, and in the process found me.

One day I hope to write about it. I have the room…