You can’t go home, but we do again and again.
For each “Up-up” that passes a little one’s lips… For every adult that secretly hopes for things to look up… Wishing that you find the arms and words to take flight. If you have it, be grateful. If you can, offer it.
We are in the throes of a kitchen renovation. Tomorrow the kitchen sink will be dismantled, there will be no sink until at least Saturday, likely later. I am flirting with pouting about it. I thought that I’d culled all there was to cull when I emptied the cabinets and yet I can tell I have things that are tethered to me in some sort of subconscious, self-defeating sentimentality. Each trip to the makeshift dish station sees me making halting jerky moves as I consider and then reconsider adding something to the donate pile. It was a relief to drive away from the house and its suffocating prison of to-dos.
Here’s a peek at what we did for a sweet sliver of the weekend and here is a link to Suzi Banks Baum’s blog Laundry Line Divine. She invited me to write a post about #WhatMothersMake
I had a preoccupation as a little girl that people around me would die. Actually, it wasn’t about people around me, it was my mom; I actively worried that I would lose her. There are moments when the pangs of fear that I would feel come back to me, not as fear of losing her now, but that very raw feeling of being 8 and afraid that she’d be swallowed up by something and be out of reach to me. I think it was in that time, in those moments in our house on the hill, the twists of brown and gold rug beneath my feet and the weight of fearing my mom’s death all around me, that I developed my tendency to say…