Wednesday, November 28, 2012
I tried to count the trees as they rushed by.
I tried to count the trees as they rushed by, blurs of green and brown and impending winter, branches a little more bare than they were just yesterday. I held Hank's hand tight, breathing in the cold air that rushed in through the cracked window, that rushed in and all around us. Henry in the back seat, bright eyed and smiling, sounds of trucks and pages turning, the sound of laughter and snacks in a cup, the sound of being a toddler. It was almost dark then, as we drove home from dinner.
On that drive I thought about this past weekend, sitting on the couch with my Grandmother next to me, her hands knitting, her skin so thin it looked like paper, fingers moving moving moving as she pieced together those colors. I thought about my father, sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper like he always does, cup of coffee, piece of toast, my mother sitting with her legs curled up, glasses on, book in hand.
It's all so simple and it's all that I know. It's what I grew up with, my everyday, my whole world in that house. And all of that is hard for me sometimes. The everyday things. The simple things. When I have too much time to think too much about how fragile it all is, how it won't always be like this, how one day we'll be driving in the car and there won't be toddler sounds, Henry grown up and on his own. Or how one day I'll be on the couch and my grandmother won't be there. Or my Dad won't be in his chair. Or my Mom won't be curled up in hers. No cup of coffee, piece of toast, glasses, book.
All my life I've had an acute awareness of the here and now. Of the fact that every single thing I have and love and cherish won't always be here. In a way I feel like this has pushed me to be sad at times, sadder than some people. But now as I get older it makes me feel much less sad, and more alive, if that makes sense. This is all I have. This. Here, now. And now I can see that this is such a gift- such a gift of being aware of this simple beauty so that I can cherish it all. So I can remember to take a step back and capture it, file it away. Simple days. Everyday things. The sound of Henry waking up, the way the sun comes in through the back window in the morning. The pitter patter of tiny feet on our kitchen tile, the squeals and laughter that fills every corner of our home during our waking hours. My father's voicemails, my mother's texts. Our son, my grandmother. Hands and legs and cups of coffee. The car, the couch, the newspaper, the chair.
Stopping, and breathing, and taking it in.