We had a barbecue at the house this afternoon – grandmother (Yikes! Moi!) and grandfather, mother and uncle, our two most significant family others Holly and Wayson, and the small centre of this universe. Who did not eat steak, salmon and grilled vegetables with us; who, in fact, would hardly wake up for some nutritious milk. We laughed a lot, we ate a lot – unusually, we did not drink at all, except for Glamma who, because she has spent time in France, had a glass of wine with her meal.
And then it was time for baby to go back across town with his contingent, for Grandpa to drop them off and drive on to the airport, to fly home. As the car pulled away, I thought, Everyone who matters most in my world is in that car. My heart hurt so with love – and fear. It is frightening to feel this vulnerable, to care so deeply about the fate of a few others, to feel connected with every fibre and breath. I went into the garden to recuperate, and vigorously sprayed the roses for aphids and black spot. It felt good to be doing something positive and immediate to safeguard my little piece of planet. To keep something beautiful healthy and well.
During the visit, the cat opened one sour eye, stared at the small interloper, went back to sleep. No competition there.
It’s time to take a deep breath and move on, resume my routines, get my life back. The little family will flourish on the other side of town, tall young man is striding confidently into his adult life, and Glamma needs to pull herself together and FOCUS. Mind you, there’s another pressing need – my mother. She is having a marvellous time in the hospital; my brother called to say she has a new lease on life, looks wonderful and is full of an energy she hasn’t had in a long time. When we called her this afternoon, she was out somewhere and could not be found. But there are decisions to be made about what’s next.
And there are students to think about, memoirs to edit. More planting is needed in the garden, pruning, spraying. My bedroom and office, a chaotic jumble of clothes and papers, look like a 15-year old lives there, because I haven’t had time to put things away. I am reading a library book called “The Hoarder in You: how to live a happier, healthier, uncluttered life.” “Happier and healthier” are not my concern; things are more than okay right now – she said, touching wood – in those departments. It’s the “uncluttered” that needs help.
And most of all, there’s writing work to be done. Somehow, I must drag my brain back from Babyland.
