We came home, out of the heat, into the cool cave of our house, after 1.5hrs of shopping. Shopping with two little girls at Target? — No. Fun. I was ready to tantrum.
We were trying to find Val a new swim suit. Finding a new swim suit for a seven-year-old? — No. Fun.
We tried every little skimpy thing they have there. Tie-dye, polka dots, stripes, daisy, pukey pink, hearts, flowers, etc. Pulling on the suit, squint eyes, shake head, pull off suit. Repeat. Reminds me of how it is like trying to find a decent pair of jeans. Hard, this is hard. How can finding a swim suit to wear be so hard when you are seven-years-old?
Then there was one that seems to fit her body type good. “I like this one very much!” Val declared. Good. It was a bit on the loose side, so we just need to get back to the racks and pull the next smaller size and we can go home!
Of course, they did not have the next smaller size.
But finally I found something that she could wear, that she was happy with, that was in her size.
The white-haired old lady at the check-out asked me, “Did you find everything ok?” and I looked at her and contemplated for a second yelling, “Hell, NO!! It was dang hard finding a swim suit for my daughter! I just wasted an hour and a half of my life pulling swim suits on and off her!” But no, I nodded my head and said, “yes.”
Relieved to be home, I plopped in-front of the computer and opened my Google Reader. I saw Bon has a new post. I read it. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO!!!
I am over-reacting. It’s just a trip. It will all be OK. But I was worried. Worried to hell. Again, I am over-reacting. Of course it is going to be OK. Tell me it is going to be OK.
I have never met Bon, just like I’ve never met Kate. But, I have spoken to her on the phone, I know what her voice sounds like, I know what she looks like (beautiful). I have run my palm, gingerly, carefully, over her scars. Her scars like a map, of her grief, her hurt, her courage, her beauty. I read her words and i do not understand how can someone still write with such beauty after all that had transpired. Her heart is still soft and gentle, not hard and angry. (Although of course, if need be, she will give you the finger and ask you to eff off.)
I just do not understand- why pick her again? Why let her go through the meat grinder again? Why is it so hard for some women to just have a baby? Especially, why do it to those who do not need any lessons in “life is precious”; “Life does not come easy”?
Crap. Shit. SHIT.
Had to run out to M’s house just as dinner got on the table, because that food co-op delivery truck was late. When I arrived I saw S. Last summer, her daughter was due about the same time that I was. She talked to me a lot about her daughter’s pregnancy, comparing notes; she was going to California for a month to help out after baby comes. I last saw her in June, last year. After Ferdinand died, I did not show up to pick up my co-op order. Could not face those people. Did not want to answer questions. M graciously took my order, chuck my cold items in her refrigerator, and let me go pick up my order at a different time. I cannot believe this, I have not gone personally to pick up my order for a year now. Chicken. I know, without having to ask M, that people have asked and she had told them about Ferdinand.
I smiled at S, albeit weakly. She stared at me. Smiled weakly and stood there. Is she going to ask? Does she remember? Is she going to say something? I braced myself, just in case she would say anything. I was already choking.
But she did not say anything, did not talk to me. I picked up my two boxes of stuff and drove home.
Dinner was cold and the table a mess. I was hungry and heaped the tortellini onto my plate, added the works and sat down to eat. Sophia came to the dining table and sat with me, with markers and a piece of paper. She drew (another) picture for Ferdinand.
“I love him, Mom. I want to burn this picture too so he gets it.”
“I am sad, Mom, that Ferdinand died.”
“Will we have another baby who will be alive?”
The tortellini was cold, hard, and tasted like tears. I could not eat anymore.
I cannot do this anymore. Somebody needs to take my heart and put it in their freezer… … until, until, until…. things can be calmer.
I cannot take this missing, these questions, those words anymore. And that ability to feel… …
I have not even been sitting around wiping tears. I have been at the computer working on a translation assignment. And there my daughter is busy picking the scab, missing, expressing her tender sadness.
And over there is Bon, her heart exposed and vulnerable again.
And there is nothing I can do.
So I disposed the tortellini, left the kitchen in a mess and brought everyone up to bed.
I could not fall back to sleep, after waking up feeling warm, and went to take a sip of water.
I laid there and wondered what time is it in Halifax. Where is Bon? What is she doing? How is she feeling?
I laid there and wiped my tears and spooned Sophia into me, kissing her fine, soft hair and whispering to her that Ferdinand feels her love and misses her too.
For a moment there was an impulse to get on my knees and just pray.
But I did not do that. I tried to erase all thoughts, all anxieties, empty my mind and fall back to sleep.
The answers will reveal themselves when the time comes.
I felt a bit silly, being invested in other people’s affairs. But I could not help it. She is no “other people”; she is fellow medusa and fellow companion on the path.
My heart hurts, for everything. It wants to believe that it is all going to be good. It really wants to believe.
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