It's become so commonplace now for me to write down everything that goes through my head (yes, I'm actually that dim :-) ) here that I don't really stop to think that it might be read, or that, God forbid! I may be judged on this stuff, but it's probably too late now to worry about it. However, what I find odd, or curious rather, in an adult person such as myself, is that like a dog whose mate is taken away, I get very sad when J has to travel. This is made worse by the fact that we've just spent 10 day, twenty four hours a day in each other's company and actually had rather a nice time together. We maybe fought once, and that was when we got back home, grumpy and jet-lagged. But yesterday, when he left for Mexico City, it was all I could do not to stare at the wall and wait for the tears to roll. It's pathetic, I know. Not exactly pioneering or feminist either. I don't like it when he's on planes. I'm scared that something will happen. It's nuts. Entirely irrational, but there it is. There is a space when he is gone, a very large (and quiet) space. It's more harmonious I suppose, but in rather a dull way.
So, overcompensating, I made tea and breakfast of onion & red pepper fritatta and wheat toast with apricot jam for both children, lunches for Noony as well as Minks, even though I know he goes out for sushi. But today is internship day and he's usually to busy to buy lunch. I bought big fat floury bread rolls and filled them with butter and salami and baby lettuce and cheddar. Bags of grapes and Cadbury's chocolate eggs and garbanzo beans. He eats three mouthfuls of fritatta because he can see I've made the effort. They're all gone now, all three of them, by car, by bus, by plane, and I'm here with the dogs, the tulips, the grey morning, the white plum blossom, the hum of the refrigerator, an occasional bird that makes its way through the low cloud, Minky's blue ribbon from Sunday, and the envelope that contains the final payment for Noony's college trip back east. He leaves on Saturday. Two days ago we were looking at pictures of a little blonde seven year old fishing for crabs on a jetty in the late afternoon sun, gappy grin, sunburned nose, and in a couple of days he will be making choices between NYU ad BC and Middlebury. It's wild. He is handsome and clever and wise and most of all, he is kind. I know he will make good choices. I have no worries that he will land where he is meant to be, but oh my, did it have to go this fast?
Pema Chodron (I think that is her name, without looking it up, I can't be sure) talks of making sure the moments count, of being mindful of each moment, because we cannot rely on hope or what will come, because we don't know, and that all things will happen because they are supposed to, and for a reason. By this way of thinking, I wonder whether the two mouthfuls of fritatta are in fact the things one remembers. The sitting up till 10:30 last night, in the kitchen, talking about college, the fact that he chose to share his storyboards for his film project with me because I happened to be there? I think she's right. This is what counts. I watched them both cut up a pair of Mink's jeans because it's Spirit Week at Buckley. Left alone, they help each other, have fun together, and I can only stand by and hold my breath and enjoy the ephemeral moments.
