Winding down work. Most loose ends knotted. House on the market; the agent’s sign hangs tall at the bottom corner of the lawn.
Mapped out my packing plan between now and moving day. Scheduling dinner dates, drink gatherings, letmeseeyouoncemore times.
It will be weird not going to marching band rehearsals; weird not witnessing the steady subtle growth and transformation of willowy summer students into mature and bossy, confident swaggermeisters. Even the mousiest of newbs finds their moxie in a few short weeks. And, their music. I am already missing that.
It will be strange not waking my teengirl. Three times before she rockets, swearing, late to the shower or straight to the car, hair in a bun, scrambling for a bagel, barking for cash, a tornado to the driveway. Though I’ve not done this since late January. We had words and, frayed end of my parenting rope, I suggested she try her attitude and disrespect on her father and his wife, and she left the very next day. She never returned. The snark turned to venom and rage full hate. The abrupt shift in our relationship remains a blow.
September could still feel odd, with no child of mine near or even wanting closeness.
Change…at the bottom of my purse, in small piles on the dresser, filling a squat pickle jar on the bookcase.
She graduates just under three weeks. I am “banned” grom her life, and it is hard to breathe without a small hitch in my chest.
They say it will be fine. But when.
Someone to come home to. What a novel idea.
Why didn’t I think of this sooner?
Singlehood and I have been a haphazard pair going on 13 years next month. Twice I seriously tried to cut bait and try a new, real, partner but neither of us were ready. So, we have rabbleroused and raised my child, and found distractions like writing and helping when extra hands are needed, and insomnia, and maybe a few dark nights – home alone – of too much wine and not enough folly–only moderation of both are considered healthy distractions.
As my final train approaches my ‘home’ station on Long Island, I know the house will be quiet. Empty…and for all the other times I wished for a moment of peace between agendas, I wish it were going to be boisterous or even just small “Hi there.”
Someone to come home to.
They should write a song.
My first Dailey & Vincent concert.
During the long-distance part of the LDR, this event every March marked a later Sunday morning phone call, especially if The Guy ‘ran squad’ the night before. We’d talk after the concert was over, late afternoon/early evening. I’ve heard about it, never got to go.
Only seven songs in and I know this will not be my last. The wild rambling country classics, the touch of gospel honey; rusty, dented-heart ballads and oaky warm folk – all good soul food for this North Shore girl. And, damn, I love the banjo and mandolin together…and the guy with the velvet gravel bass voice? Yeah, his singing is mighty fine…mighty fine.
Here’s a link to the opener.
Here, a few random shots from the concert. Can’t wait until next year!
Between packing my NY home and moving to VA, I stopped in the desert. My sister, evertheyounger, turned 50 last week; we flew out to surprise her and visit a while.
Yes, she was utterly speechless and teary Saturday morning at The Egg and I (delicious breakfast, sweet staff, curious fellow diners). No, she never suspected a thing. Mission: Accomplished.