This morning was cold over-cooked toast and luke warm coffee. It was up too early and still running late. It was cutting corners, welcoming adequate, and grace in spades. It was caught in the rain, it was getting by.
Last night was a young one stretching and curling with half cries in his sleep. A plea to remember the parts of him that are still very much primal and new and vulnerable. It was the missing and the mourning. It was gratitude at the sprite nesting in my half moon shape.
Sometimes I think they keep vanishing, these people of mine, replacing themselves over and over. An infinite and overlapping falling in love and letting go. Sometimes I don’t have space to think. Sometimes their most earnest cry is to simply be remembered. For something that’s always been and will always be knit in them. To revive my own wonder in them. They never left, they keep leaving. Sometimes – stop – they’re asking for toast, for water, a nappy, a story, an ally, to be noticed. More toast more apples more more.
There was a last goodbye in our family last week. I read that flowers are sent as a reminder of the beauty and brevity of life. I guess that makes sense.
The beauty, the brevity, and the mundane clean up. Motherhood: toast and heartbreak.