i got out of work early today--only two parent-teacher conferences and i was done. i pushed my meetings aside and headed to the pet store to buy frozen rats for my classroom snake, who just this morning i found curled up inside the futon in our classroom. i mean, literally INSIDE the futon; i had to cut the bottom fabric from the underbelly and there she was. she had been missing for two days. i can't help but wonder what she was heading out for, what kind of life she was seeking away from her heating pad and newspaper shreddings.
at home, i ate a bowl of ice cream that could do nothing for my cold except exacerbate it, but i didn't even blink as i spooned it into my mouth. i watched bad tv on my ipad, my headphones covering up the sounds of my daughter's tv show across from me. isolated and insulated.
i put on long pajamas and socks, despite it being 86 degrees outside. it was cooler in the house, and it is almost the end of october, so on principle i just decide to go with autumn. the other day i wore my doc martens for the first time in months, because it was in the 60s when i woke up.
alex was on a work call in our room, so i made my way to my son's room to read and rest. he's away with his school this week, camping. his room is exactly the way it looked the second he stepped foot outside its doorway--which is to say darkened, cluttered, and his.
i layed on his bed, tucking myself in under the comforter. i opened the shades a bit, because i need daylight to remind me to wake up after a few minutes of napping. i turned on the fan for white noise, and picked up the patti smith book that has been my light for the past few days. i started to make a list of all of the authors, painters and philosophers that she mentions whom i do not know, but gave up due to its size. who cares if i don't get her references? all i know is that she is pulling me in, over and over again, thinking about her watch cap and olive oil brown bread and lists without commas.
and then i read this:
"We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. . . I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes . . . Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don't go. Don't grow."
my son is gone for a few days, and gone for good. gone for the good work of growing up, gone to himself, to his friends, to his place in the world without me. he began this work when he took his first steps, weaned himself from my milk, slept by himself--but the real meat of this job began this season. he chooses to stay up late, well after i've crashed for the day. he talks to his friends via texts. eats dinner and then has another meal later. he doesn't ask for help except when he does and then it is frought with my inevitable failure at not being able to craft an answer that works for him.
he is on his way out, and the world is going to be so fucking lucky in a few short years to have him amongst the grown people who can do, and change, and make, and be.
patti's words made me cry a little bit, but only a little. being in his room makes me feel close and far at the same time, but it is comforting to me. i don't expect much from him these days, and when i am given the time of day or a hug or a "thank you for dinner, motherrrr" i quietly contain my happiness and respond with blase affirmation.
i can take you or leave you, i tell him. you doofus, i tell him. dude, i tell him.
i rest my head on his shoulder when i hug him now. he doesn't know this, but it gives me great joy. i built you, i think. i'm the one who has made it so you are tall and gangly and beautiful and strong. i have secret pride in all the damn fine work i've put into you, kid. someday i'll tell you about it.
in the meantime, i curl up on his bed and put his rabbit between my arms while i read. i think of him on a beach with a bunch of teenagers, wind flying around them; all dirty feet and no showers and stars above him as he sleeps out in the open at night.
they are all for you, i think. every single one.
