There’s an internal monologue which plays through my head in the mornings as I go about my tasks. Stick to my schedule. As I wake K from slumber, get her ready for school not so much by doing for her as I used to, but by carefully not doing for her. By hanging at the fringe and guiding her in the right direction.
Except for food stuff. I totally make breakfast and lunch, she’s just a kid for fuck’s sake.
The later in the morning it gets though the more active my role until I’m shoving her lunchbox into her backpack, brushing her long hair, sweeping it into pigtails and handing her the coat she needs to wear rather than the one she thinks will look best with her outfit.
And then I leave her.
At school of course. I was just looking for a statement with weight to go into this next part. Because the moment I walk back out of the school doors my mind quiets for a few moments. There is no monologue. No voice telling me what’s next. Just air and sky and trees. Other people that don’t, at that moment, concern me as they’re rushing into school late or out of school around me.
The thing is though, on days like today I need that voice in my head. Telling me what to do. Telling me how to proceed. Telling me to put one foot in front of the other and to not just stand in the morning air letting the misting rain kiss my cheeks and soak into my hair. I need a little of the strength I have as a mother. To see that all needs are met and everything gets done, but for myself.
I enjoy standing in the rain letting it wrap my concern in mist and magic but I can’t depend on that because, even in Portland, it doesn’t rain everyday.