Sometimes I feel like I'm spinning in place and sometimes I am reminded that the lessons I need to learn will keep being placed before me until I figure them out and move through. Here's to moving through.
Seems there's always someone I'm thinking of too much and in ways that I shouldn't. Someone unavailable or uninterested. Someone far away. Someone interested but only so much. Someone who sails away with someone else, or lives with someone else, or is still in love with someone else. Someone I want to write to but I promised myself I wouldn't. And so I write here instead.
My words don't have the right shape to hold the things I'm longing for. My words are like soggy ashes. My longing is like smoke. My heart is like a rabbit with blood on its fur running blindly. My sadness is the crow's beak, sharp and persistent, full of cries in a language I don't understand. My hunger is like a fist, all my tendons ache with it.
A woman came into the Press yesterday in motorcycle gear and a helmet, which she never removed. Someone had told her about a place that had free calendars with local art represented each month, and when she saw that we were a press she thought that it might be us. It wasn't, and we directed her to where we thought she should go. She thanked us and walked outside. I hesitated a second, but then followed her out.
"I wanted to see your bike," I told her.
"Do you ride?"
"No, but I've always wanted to learn." It was always one of those things that I thought I might do after Hijo moved out. It always seemed so far in the future. Not anymore.
"Do it!" She smiled at me. "I bought my first bike when I was 50. I love it!"
So many possibilities for my life now. So many ways to shape it.
I ran into some neighbors at the local market; their son is the same age as Hijo, and going to the same school. When I started talking about the difficulty of sending Hijo off, the other mother started tearing up. I was grateful to see her tears, to have my own sense of grief echoed. I have been mostly a mix of excited and sad, but as move out day approaches, the sadness is coming to the forefront. Facebook shows me a photo of Hijo at ten, and I burst into tears at my desk, knowing there are so many moments that are gone forever, moments that I won't even remember.
I wish I'd been more present, wish I hadn't always been so exhausted. I wish I had the chance to do some things over. I'm a better parent now, but it doesn't matter.
It's such a strange thing to be a mother, to grow a child inside of you, to feed him from your body, to know, finally, how much love you are capable of. And then, because you've done a good job in spite of all the mistakes you've made, he is excited and ready to go. You are excited for him.
And so you dream of motorcycles and camper vans, you dream of traveling and never staying too long in one place. You dream of all the places you might go. Because staying put in the little house that was yours and his for so many years seems like something you cannot quite make yourself do on your own.