Missing the child

It’s the little things. Her socks, mismatched, left by the bed. The stick of deodorant sitting on the desk. The fish tank she wants me to mind. (I mind it, but don’t mind, really.)

Her leaving was an exciting event for both of us: for her an adventure, for me an inevitable rite of passage. But after her departure, well, that’s when I began to notice those things and their missing owner: the socks, the deodorant, the handbag I thought she’d taken with her. (“Honey, do you want me to sent that?”)

I try to imagine her place, her life, her elsewhere. Amsterdam is a wonderful place to be. But “back home” misses her.

Springtime

It surprises me every year. Spring, that is. I like looking out my kitchen window, at The Tree, every evening at around 6 o’clock. I’m fairly sure I’ve been keeping track of time, but then suddenly I realize that the crepuscular light I love seems different. I look up at the clock: 6:45. The Tree was set in darkness at 4:45 just a month ago. No, surely that’s impossible. Yet the telltale signs are there: My azaleas are budding; my tulips have pushed through their woodchips (living in an apartment, I have to grow them in pots); the boiler doesn’t turn on as often. But it’s the time of twilight that always takes me by surprise. Am I happy about this? I’m not quite sure.

Hello all

This is my first venture with a blog, inspired by friend and colleague Jennifer Baker. I won't post much, and I won't post often. But it's nice to know that I can.