Thursday, July 19, 2018

instead of Monday

Instead of working out I sat.  I sat with the 5 am news playing quietly as I swam in the lingering stickiness of the dream.  A dream where I realized I could pretend to go to school for the day instead of really going.

I was starting to gather the items I thought I would need for a day of slipping off into hiding when my alarm went off.

When I woke the memory of "not wanting to do the day" stayed.

I didn't want to go to work.
I didn't want to workout.
I didn't want to be the one to wake Beach.  Or the one to place a cup of coffee down on BC's nightstand.

 I didn't want to be sheep dog of our morning.

Instead of working out I sat for a long time.  Eventually, I got warmed up.  I turned on the tiny screen saved on my computer... but instead of starting the circuit I sat back down on my yoga mat.

The weeks and weekends of summer tumbled across me like the ocean. In my line of sight the handdrawn calendar on the board.  The days cresting with times and names.  They tumbled from Monday to Monday.

I thought of the dream again.  Where would I have gone?  I remembered the wieght guilt and fear that always overcast the freedom of skipping school. It was never worth it.

I paused my "instead of" thinking to make coffee.  I returned to it only to put it on pause again to wake Beach.  She fell back asleep.

The kitchen was white and clean.  The new kitchen table BC brought home over the weekend blank but inviting; promising for long mornings of school work.  The whole house was clean, even BC's areas in the yard thinning.  We are doing well.

I remembered the way it all looked to me on Saturday night when I returned from visiting the elderly lady I have taken to checking in on over long weekends.  She lives in an apartment building not too far away.  An apartment building I used to deliver boxes of food to for the food coop when they asked for female drivers to drive to sensitive locations.  Beach would help me.  Once a month we would load my red VW van with brown boxes of fresh bread and produce.

I sit with this woman in her little crate of a home and we talk.  I fix her dinners she picks at.  I give her a palm of pills she takes.

I listen to the stories of her life.  The ones she has held onto.  They remind me of the random collections of things I took from my sister's apartment after she died.

Some of her stories stick like smoke to her and others fade like unfed fire.  Sometimes her stories repeat.  But over the weeks they have filled in.  Details left out return.

"I haven't thought about that old house for years," she said of a childhood home in California.

She has changed to me.  Her stories filled her in.  They fill us both in.  She remembers my name and uses it.  She tells me she likes me coming because I am nice.  I wash her random collection of dishes sitting in the sink.  I throw out spoiled food.  She likes that I swear.  She likes that I am curious about her.  She likes that I am there.

She doesn't remember that we both lost a sister to drugs and drinking.  Each time we tell it to each other, for the first time again, she smiles with amazement at her luck to find the strange woman in her apartment understands the darkness of the room behind the early death of a sister.

This weekend when I left her I pulled the door to her apartment closed and watched her face disappear.

Instead of working out I sat thinking about her; thinking about my own mother, my mother's mother, the past, and the future.  Thinking about closing doors.  The 6am news turned to 7.  Coffee to BC's nightstand- better late than never.  At 7:01 am I returned to my life coming out safely beyond the breakers.  Treading water, hahah, I float.  BC sinks like a stone in water but I float.

I get dressed thinking of the lake.  Remembering the feeling of the cold water popping as I cut through in the deepest dive I dared to make.

Instead of being a good granddaughter or even a good daughter, I am a good strange.  Instead of grace or faith or even hope I have stories that run generation to generation.

Instead of picking up the blueberries I dropped or the coffee cup I filled, I left them.  I wasn't early to work but I also wasn't late.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

raft of blue

 A pic of a summer night stretching long, a little too long.  A night at the end of a little too hot of a day.  A day in which the Little Giants had 5 hours of gym followed by a large carload (more than my car holds) dropped out to the steamy pavement and sweaty lines of Lagoon.  

After crashing into the house, whirling and flutter around, this is where the group dropped off here landed.  And this is where they stayed until they were collected by either parents or sleep. 

Friday, July 13, 2018

strawberry shortcake

New lake favorite: Strawberry Shortcake!

I know, that's not a great photo but the girls made them and ate them so fast I am lucky I got a pic of this one!  I bought those little cakes $1.79 a package, cut up a few cartoons of strawberries (2 for $5), and threw 2 cans of whipped cream (priceless fun in a can) in the cooler.

 Oh, yes- we had blueberries too. 

Thursday afternoon at the lake

Pretty much perfect.

Thursday, July 12, 2018

if I could see

At this moment I wish I could see into the future.  Standing in front of the bathroom sink trying to decide if I should wear mascara or if I really shouldn't.  It all depends on the news I am about to get.  No, not on the news, on my reaction to it.

I think hard about it.  I try to feel which way I am leaning but I turn up empty.  I haven't a clue anymore.  The only feeling I can pull on is the thick, queasy feeling of the sedatives we have used to get me through past appointments.

I am up at 5 am.  In the shower by 5:15.
At 6:30 I will wake Beach for gym.
At 7:32 we will pull out of the driveway.
At 7:50 we will be at gym.

At 9:00 I will be standing alone in the office of my dentist as the ladies behind the desk gush over how great I look and how far I have come.  As in not balling hysterically with BC nearby making sure I don't run out.  As in not drugged.  As in not being hauled out of the office in a wheelchair.

I will cringe inside; smile a closed mouth smile (habit) and dismiss their optimism with a warning about me not being in the chair yet.

I should be able to do this.  All I need is a set of x rays.  They will tell us if the screws in my jaw are healing.  If it goes well I will be given a date for the first of the last 2 appointments I will need.  My math says the earliest that would be is the end of August, more likely September, but this whole time frame has been somewhat of a disappointing mystery novel that never ends.  When we started I had no idea how long this would take.

A month ago I couldn't imagine being left in lingo this long.  September, November, December.  I no longer know if that is too far off or too soon.  Part of me, against all logic, feels not ready.  The last 2 appointments should be pretty easy but I feel like my tolerance is thin and my fear fatter than ever. And that is if it goes well.

If it goes bad? Anyone of the screws, or even all of them, could have failed and we would have to "start" over- whatever that would mean; bone grafting?  I know I would not be capable of that and yet I know it could happen anyway.  It could happen in little steps.  Little impossible to think about steps just as it already has.

I think what I am most afraid of is crying over "good" news but that sounds insane- and a little hopeful.  It could be out of relief.  Fear.  Beneath that worry I can hear the whisper of what bad news might do to me.  I keep thinking I should ask them to not tell me my results.  To have them call me when I am safely in my own car driving away.  I would never be brave enough to ask.

Although, I am being "brave" enough to go without BC.  He intended to go with but he has been so busy I let him forget about it and I am sneaking off without him.  Letting him sit this one out guilt free.

That is how it is done.
Tiny steps.

And I suppose a little bit of mascara.