homesick fever

there's a feverish cloud surrounding my house right now.

both kids had strep this week; one went back to school today and the birthday boy is still at home with a low-grade fever. meanwhile, his father and i got nailed on the same day; fevers, chills, coughs--a first in our 20-year relationship, i think.

i haven't had a fever in many, many years. maybe not since childbirth. its an interesting world to be in--full of hot and cold at the same time, fuzzy around the edges, feeling like i just want to crawl into my bed and stay there for a long, long time.

i don't do "sick" well at all.

for some reason, i keep thinking about what this past week would've been like if we lived in massachusetts, near our families. put simply, we would've had help. there would have been people to help take care of our children, thereby taking care of us. someone else would've made us some soup, probably, instead of me trying to throw stuff in a big pot while i take breaks on the couch, covering up with a huge comforter.

did i mention its in the 80's today?

i don't let myself go to this place too often these days; this place of longing for the life i could be having back east. it's too dangerous for me, like running my finger along the edge of my just-sharpened knife. it's too easy to sink back into the comfort of my alternate universe, and i've worked really hard to stop doing that and pay attention to what is right in front of me.

still.

i do mourn for that life of mine, the one where my children see their grandparents so much they start complaining every time we say they are going for a sleepover. dear god, a sleepover.

there is nothing i would like more than to reinstitute sunday family dinners, like we used to do when my pa and grammie were alive; of course, this time there would be a lot less meat served. but still. we would be together. my children would know their cousins, know them so well that they might get in fights sometime. and they would know that february brings chill and coldness and frost and snow and bitter winds. most of the time.

it's so strange to think about how far apart most families are these days. i know that i'm certainly not the only one missing my people. i know i'm lucky, in that i get to visit a couple times a year. make no mistake, there are many families in this city of angels that have had to say goodbye and know it will be years, years, years, before they can touch each other again. i know how blessed i am, being a white girl with resources. i have not overlooked this.

but today, i wish my mom could take care of me a little bit. i wish i could go outside for a breath of fresh air to cool my burning cheeks. i wish that my family was near me, so that i could unabashedly ask them for help.

i wish i was back home, just for today.

bequeathed.

making soup in my kitchen tonight, i sang my heart out with adele and watched my little girl spin round and round and round until she couldn't stop laughing.

she took her arms and stretched them to the ceiling, trying to grab the words right out of the song, right out of my mouth.

how so much joy could collide with so much longing was astounding; cosmic in its shattering weight upon that little moment while the soup simmered.

and the ipod shuffled.

next she gathered herself in my lap while i sang her every word to "fix you", and i doused her in the lyrics and put my cheek to hers and stroked her hair as if the song transformed into some kind of kitchen lullaby.

she wore a quiet smile the whole time.

and a smirk when i said, "wait, here comes the guitar part. . ." and "are you ready for the drums? here they are . . . oh wait, not yet . . . okay, now here they are . . ."

a fragment of a second of my life, but there it is, the moment when i pass on the love of a beautiful pop song to my daughter. she cannot escape the power. she is doomed forever.

and then, when the moments had passed and the soup called to be stirred and she shimmied off my lap she asked, "why are the songs always about love?"

and i told her that most songs are about some kind of love, that its one of the most important things to sing about, and that sometimes, when you are a young person, who you love is the only thing you think about some days.

"when you were a teenager did you think about who you loved?"

and i told her all the time. all the time. all the time.

the run.

woke up early this morning to go running.

first time in weeks, actually. i've been slogging through december without much exercise, and i know that my body and soul need me to start moving again. so i chose this pristine winter morning to do it.

it was about 30 degrees out, with low clouds in the sky and the sun barely peeking through the trees. it comes out later here, goes down earlier--i forgot that. somehow 7 o'clock seems like a misnomer, as if mother nature forgot to wind her watch.

this is rural massachusetts, here where my in-laws live. there are cows in very large yards that double as farms, and acres of land for one house. trees everywhere, ponds and rivers and streams still running in this warm december air. flashes of red as cardinals make their way through the sky, their brown-gold mates close behind.

there is majesty in the stillness. there is drama in the fallen trees, barren of leaves, hit hard by the halloween snowstorm a couple months back. this is a story i heard about, read about--it is not my story. this is not my town. not even my state.

funny how the locals here sing praises about the warmth of the winter so far, while my california children and i pray for snow to accumulate in piles around us. at this point, we'd give anything for fat, happy snowflakes in the air, just floating down for us to catch on our tongues.

forty years old, and still waiting for the first snow to come.

something still about this terrain that is singed into me, branded into my skin. i cannot escape the calm and peace that this landscape brings me. it is still the home that hangs around my neck, like a necklace from my best friend in the world. it is the home that shelters all the thoughts and wishes and hopes of the future. it's the home that takes precious little time to remind me of what i am missing when i am so far away.

i'm not sad today. i'm really not. just so grateful for a morning spent with my body moving again, listening to the sounds of the world around me, alternating between live bird calls and the roots on my ipod. hearing this song called "fire" that seals the deal.

my red cheeks are my badge of honor this morning. the cold slices my skin but comforts it at the same time. the beauty of the incongruousness is a wonder to behold.

aspire.

in school this past week my daughter was part of a discussion in her classroom about superheroes.

the kids all went around the circle, talking about what they would choose for their power. a lot of kids said they would fly. a few said they would be invisible. some kids talked about changing into animals.

when it was my girl's turn, she simply said, "i don't want any superhero powers. i just want to be myself."

as the days tick closer to my fortieth birthday, i think of this moment, and realize that i want to be just like her when i grow up.

inked

going to get my birthday tattoo tonight.

what is it that makes me walk into a shop and sit down and willingly wound myself for a statement? why do i need the permanency of a picture on my body?

its curious.

tonight i hope to invite a spider to rest on my wrist for the rest of my life, with her web underneath where my veins lay blue and twisted. i know she is the right choice. i can feel her pulling herself into me, as i wait for my night to begin.

and to make it more clear, there is now a spider spinning a web from the star on our xmas tree.

i know there are a lot of people getting tattoos out there, and a whole lot more who can't understand why the hell i am doing it. my husband, for one. i know that he quite actively dislikes it, but tries his best to find his way to at least appreciate my decision. i am grateful to him for that.

my parents can't fathom why i would want to. my grandfather couldn't stand it, and told me so.

and i admit there is a part of me that is still searching for the reason why i choose to go under the needle, but the fact is i need to tell the story of my life. it turns out that words alone don't quite do it for me; or at least words on paper. the finality of letters and images on my skin doesn't scare me, it soothes me. it makes me feel like a real live girl. makes me feel that each twinge of pain as i deep breathe through the color is reminding me that i am awake, and right where i need to be.

and yet at the same time reminding me of where i've been and who i used to be.

there is a seriousness to all of this, isn't there? and there damn well should be, since i can't erase it. but there is also a part of this that reminds of being a kid, and drawing on my skin with markers, and delighting in how fancy my body could look with all of that art.

turns out it still makes me really happy.

this month

december is the prettiest month.

this i am fairly sure of.  it may have to do with all the lights about and the sparkliness of the season, but i feel that it goes deeper than all of that superficial stuff.

i think its more about the quiet of the nights, the ease of the blackness that sneaks earlier and earlier into the daytimes.  there is deep beauty in the stillness of the cold air.  there is majesty in the breath of air that i can actually see.

i won't speak of snow yet, or the bracing cold that shivers my skin down deep, because i am only speaking of the december that is here with me now.  soon enough i will visit the december of my childhood, and that is an entirely different experience.  the prettiness becomes laced with the emotion of back home, and there is more bittersweet there than i can properly speak of at this moment.

this december is bringing me a momentous number to claim.  my fortieth birthday is a few weeks away, and the days are passing by while i cross them off on the calendar, knowing that my own personal countdown is both buoying me up and sinking me fast.

i'm determined not to go too deep with the sinking, i promise.

i keep telling myself that this time should only be filled with celebration for this life well lived thus far.
i keep telling myself that i deserve a kick-ass tattoo to commemorate the day.
i keep telling myself that i am worthy of the number, and yet that the number is nothing to notice.
i keep telling myself that i am what forty looks like.
i keep telling myself that i am almost halfway through, except that i'm planning to live until i'm 100, so that's not really true...

it really doesn't matter.  i know it doesn't.  it really doesn't matter at all.

i am thankful that i am here right now, in this early december evening, knowing that there is something about wintertime that makes me glow from within, something that is illuminated behind my eyes throughout this entire season.  this is true.

december is good to me.

the loveliest

what is there to be said about a dog?

she was my friend for fifteen years, and stayed watch over me while i cried or cooked or slept alone or took walks or watched tv or knitted or played. she was in the room with me when my daughter was born, and licked my son's face minutes after he breathed his first air. she let me bury my face in her fur when i was distraught, always smelling of good, good dog; never a stink on her, never a cringe from me. always smelling of the best dog in the world.

especially right behind her ears.

she traveled with us from california to massachusetts and loved the snow as i did, burying her face in it and eating it with abandon and delight. she made sure of us, kept us together, made us whole and complete by climbing up on the couch and sighing to sleep each night. she was nothing short of a comfort.

she shed pounds and pounds of fur; which today we cherish, knowing we'll be finding bits for years to come. she ate disgusting things and behaved dog-like and had run-ins with skunks in her earlier days. she put up with children hanging on her and babies grabbing fur, all the while patient, tolerant, kind.

in the end, her glacial-pace walks were comical, and yet she maintained her dignity. five days ago she came running to greet me; lopsided and wobbly, legs unsure of themselves--but still, she managed to approximate a run, smiling all the way home.

today, as we sat with her while the medicine did its good, noble work, we told her over and over and over that she was the best dog. and i know this is true. and i know that you reading this may have also had a best dog in your life, and i nod my head to you, understanding that each person's best dog is hers for a reason.

fenway was my best dog. she came running up to me 15 years ago, up the small slope behind the cafe at school, her tiny body buoyed by her enormous paws--a foreshadowing of the dog to come. she came running up to me a few days ago, too. she knew that i was her person.

and i know that she felt my undying gratitude and love today, and i put my head to hers and listened to her last breaths come rumbling from deep inside. i know this. she was by far the loveliest.

i miss her so much already.