Last night felt like the last night

You’d sleep at a home, which is also my home.

This morning, I made you a flat egg sandwich.

You took it to go.

C                                  Em

Parks his cruiser in the driveway,

C                                       Em 

Turns off the engine and the day

D                                             A

Another shift ended, he’s exhausted

D                                 A

Asks himself what it’s for 

C                       Em

His legs are so weary

C                                      Em

Miles walked for me and you

D                              A

Back tired, muscles aching

D                              A

From the lack of gratitude 

 C                      G

Some days it’s just too much

       C                            D

That thin line he has to walk 

 Am                         Em 

The one that keeps us safe

    F                              D  

The one that breaks his heart 

C                       G

And he knows that he’s loved

      C                           Em

And he knows he’s hated, too

C               G

Life ain’t so simple,

 D7                               Dsus2/D

For the simple man in blue

C                                      Em

Peanut butter on the counter

C                                     Em

Dog bowl empty on the floor

D                              A    stop

It’s days like this he wonders

D                          A   stop

What the hell is it for?

C                      G

Sometimes it’s just too much

             C                         D7/D    D7/D

The thin line that he walks

        Am                         Em   

The one that keeps us safe at night

       F                              D      D

The one that breaks his heart 

[slower]

C                                      Em

Then he thinks about the women 

C                                    Em

Who mean everything to him

D                                    A

His mother and his daughters,

D                          A

His lover, and his wife

 C                      G

Some days it’s just too much

       C                            D

That thin line he has to walk 

 Am                         Em 

The one that keeps us safe

    F                              D  

The one that breaks his heart 

C                       G

And he knows that he’s loved

      C                           Em

And he knows he’s hated, too

C               G

Life ain’t so simple,

 D7                               D

For the simple man in blue

C                              Em

But like the wounds he keeps hidden

C                              Em

He doesn’t show his pain.

C                                         Em

Tomorrow when the sun is rising

D                             A

He’ll do it all again

D                             A

He’ll do it all again

“I believe in a man who taught me love is like the ocean. I believe you swam too deep.”

Several years ago, my daughter had the harsh but important experience of learning that someone she’d chosen as a role model revealed himself, inelegantly, to be flawed. The realization knocked her sideways for a bit, left her reeling from the truth: even good, kind, and well-meaning folk cause pain sometimes. Inadvertent, perhaps, but still burns. Part of that lesson is just the human condition. And part of it comes from a place deep inside children like her, like me, who live in a fairytale like place instead of reality. Because the truth of life can be a hard look. And, really, who wants to see that? Not her, not me.

When something cracks the blue sky and the puffy clouds burst open and the rain falls down and stings your skin, you realize, I have realized, living in a pretend world isn’t the best place anymore. Not for myself, for my growth, for my heart. She realized it, too. Perhaps at the price of some innocence. But at the same time, gaining the value of living in reality. Living in truth.

And so I, too, am stepping gingerly into my new world. Choosing to move on and to be grateful for what I’ve learned, and also for all that I’ve experienced. I may have believed in fairytales longer than I should. And I’ll take awhile to lick my wounds. But ultimately I’ll climb back out into the world, feel the sun on my face, and be happy, even for those who have taught me lessons I didn’t want to learn.

I believe in a heart that craves devotion. It’s what we have in common, me and everyone I meet. I believe in a man who taught me love is like the ocean. I believe you still are he.

“Believe” Lucy Greenman. Lyrics borrowed without permission. I hope Lucy won’t mind.

I thought maybe if I covered that expanse of white siding underneath the dining room bay window with some sort of beautiful planting, the reality of its stark truth would be hidden from view. I thought that maybe something green and luscious, and edible, perhaps, would make up for how vacuous the space actually was. And the house inside, devoid of late night gigglings or sneaking into the fridge to feed one another cake, straight from the bakery box. I’d planted a fig. For, I don’t know, good luck? Fertility? Just some damned semblance of life? And, it grew, I’ll give it that. But, it never did fruit. Not once. The first summer here, I thought, “I’ll never have a home like that again,” and while in that moment, I was actually feeling sorry for myself. What I didn’t realize was that, no, I’d never again have a home that was just a shell. Here, I’d build real warmth, make real love, and thanks to one lone plant on clearance at Home Depot, even have figs. I planted the tree with just a spade, as my mean nextdoor neighbor wouldn’t loan me a shovel. And the following year my new rambunctious puppy dug up my fledling fruit tree. But today! Lawd, Almighty, today, I took a look at what a few months back was barely a few twigs in the frost, and there is fruit!! I am a grandmother! My baby fig tree is making babies of its own. I am proud and happy and cannot wait to taste the sweet jam on warmed French bread toast with chevre. Even in this heat, life is good!

Our room in Teahan’s, Crowmane, County Kerry, looks out over the Castlemaine harbor. The tide is low, as are the clouds. Ireland is this gentle palette of blue-gray, gray, and green. There’s a field behind the inn where a hare lives, and in the surrounding countryside, amongst the smattering of houses, there are cow and sheep fields. It’s just lovely.

The girls are still asleep, but I’ve gone down for coffee. Mary, the house manager was there, tending to a table of tourists from America, men, looked like golfers to me. Soon she’ll run “one of the Ukrainians” into town. They’ve been hosting refugees here for months now. When we arrived yesterday, Mary told us about a family of Pakistanis who’s stayed for months, getting ferried about, only to leave suddenly without a thanks, and leaving their 17 year old son behind to pack 4 trunks of their belongings and travel to Dublin alone. Mary said the rest of the refugees come only with plastic bags of their belongings.

Last night a family arrived with their baby. I am sitting here in the room, appreciating the view, the coffee, and my daughters, safe and asleep in their bed.

My whole life I’ve known that my grandmother came to this country in 1920 with her parents. She was 8 years old. None of them spoke a word of English. I’ve often wondered what it must have been like to come into that unknown, unfamiliar land, and start brand new. What I’ve never considered, before tonight, is the unbearableness of what they had to have behind. How bad must life have been, for them to have packed up and come across an entire ocean, to an unknown world just for the possibility of finding something better, something safer, something perhaps, a bit less hateful? For the first time in my life, I have an inkling. I know what it feels like to be living in a homeland so unempathetic that I feel (and I fear) that the only conceivable option is to leave it behind. 

It never gets an easier, even after all this time. The sight of them, backs to me, as they head out the door. Hair still wet from the shower, bags of accessories in one hand, lunches in the other. Now, they carry their own car keys, too. Still, when they go, a little piece of me leaves with them, my heart no longer whole. I wish there was more to hang on to, the excited retelling of their day, what happened to whom, and the impromptu choruses of *Sweet. Baby James.” The days interminable until they return again. This week, Saturday, next not till Sunday. Until then the cords of my heart will remain taut, like the strings of their shoulder bags. 

Everyone keeps reminding me how hard empty nesting will be. I’m glad to see my kids launch themselves into the great unknown. But that can’t be harder than this. Wednesday morning cereal bowls sitting in the sink. Tonight there won’t be dinner plates, too.

I wish for them lights upon their ankles, illuminating each tiny step in front of them. I, too, will walk into the next hour, and the next hour, and the next, one at a time, wondering how they’re doing, what they’re thinking, whose heart is breaking, and who is is spilling over. I will sit in the unknowing. Until they return.

Making love with him 
is like bursting
with fragile hope.

His touches, ocean waves
Carrying and crashing,
Carrying and crashing.

Please continue. 
Breathless, trembling,
I want to go back in.

I kept on chopping the peppers into smaller and smaller bits, the minutes ticking by far slower than the water boiling on the stove, in preparation for the noodles that would bend and soften, yielding to its heat.

The blood in my veins threatened to gather speed upon the news, same for my heart, but I decided instead, to stay calm, wait it out, at least until we knew more, or had a real reason to worry.

The rhythm of the knife against the board reminded me of that day so long ago, when folding the baskets of laundry was all I could do. Reach in, pick it up, bring the corners together, over and over again, as if the repeated folding and pressing with my fingers could ease the mounting anxiety, as I sat alone on our plaid couch, listening to the baby monitor, and the news from the other room.

I spent hours that day, waiting, and wishing (hopelessly) that my husband would look for me and tell me that everything was going to be ok. (He didn’t come.) Instead, he watched those same, horrific images playing over and over again, endlessly, while I soothed out the wrinkles from his t-shirts.

This afternoon waiting for the all-clear, I made the pasta salad. Hopeful that tomorrow we’d be ok, safe inside the brick structure, that seemed so tenuous today.

The hotel room AC kicks on

It’s intermittent whir and hum

A reminder…

MY breathing will slow,

MY heart rate will temper.

Unlike the frog, too late aware

of the rising heat,

I’ve climbed out of the pot.