People that
came out of your body get on airplanes without you sometimes… and after you
drop them off at LAX, you sit in Friday afternoon traffic for a really long
time, but you don’t care, as long as he will be safe. Led Zeppelin comes on the
radio which relaxes you a little, and makes you forget you’re a parent for a
minute. You’ll go home to a house that’s empty as a vacuum. In the meantime,
you pass an old mid-century building that is painted a vintage watery turquoise
that reminds you of when you were kid. Nothing is painted that color anymore.
And those oil wells that look like bowing mantises, which as a child, I used to
think were alive, moving up and down as if they were taking bites of something
on the ground.
I keep wondering if the plane took off yet.
Suspended in traffic, suspended in summer. I have a choice of where to put my
mind: past, present, or future.
My son is 12, a tween, soon to lose the “w.” He still lets me reach
behind to the back seat and put my hand on his knee, as I’ve always done. And
then we hold hands, and he idly plays with my ring. He may be more apt to do
this on the way to the airport. If I told him I loved him any more times, it
would be too much. Oh, I already say it too much.
The moment I
pass through the intersection at 8th street, their plane is taking
off, and he’s looking over at his papa with excitement and then out the window.
Future: I
see him happily there, and that’s all that matters.
Loving and
letting go. Letting go like hanging from a trapeze with one hand, and then with
no hands…it feels preposterous. Separation anxiety is something both infants
and middle-aged mothers suffer from.
Did you ever
think that the butterfly would just hang out in the air next to you, even
though it could go any longitude or latitude that it desires. A mother wishes.
But then
entering the silent, oven-hot house, I recall that I have a solo life, (which
you forget when you live with people) and I recognize the self that used to
live alone. I turn on Middle-Eastern music and pretend my hip is a hand-drum.
As evening comes on, I know I have to get out of this stifling heat, so I put
on shorts and sneakers and go out, knowing I’ll return after dark. There is a
slight breeze, but still heat-wave season, and I’m still sweating as if
indoors. The sun is descending, and I know this neighborhood so well, even down
to the character of certain areas of certain blocks and which shadowy spots to
avoid. I walk to the Goodwill which is going to close in less than an hour. It
is almost empty because what losers would go to the Goodwill on a Friday night?
I do love coming here, so it doesn’t matter. I need to return some pants that I
bought for my son, just eyeballing the size, and of course they didn’t fit.
There is a 7-day return window, and this is the 7th day. Instead of
taking another chance at buying him pants, I really need to get a muu-muu or a
summery dress with as little material as possible to stick to my skin, but
enough to cover my body with some modesty. After browsing through prom dresses
and dresses of every shade of hot pink and mauve and navy blue and apple green,
and every unwearable fabric from lycra to brocade to chiffon to beaded, and every
pattern from argyle to camo to houndstooth to fleur-de-lis, I found two
plainish dresses that would do in public during heat waves.
Leaving with
my bag, stopping at the health food store on my way home on foot, still muggy
out, feeling like the most solo being on the planet, and kind of liking it,
yes, liking it, and knowing I can eat and watch Orange is the New Black or whatever
I want when I got home, without having to discuss it with a family member. I
like being here alone. I’m not freaked out. I have two kitties to take care of.
And I have a son and a man who are coming home to me in two weeks.
