Around the time I begin this draft, I’d be bout ready to go to work. I’d have my face and hair done and as I’d close my laptop, I’d say to my kids or my pets, “I hate this time of day.” I’d have panicky feelings about leaving. Then I’d have panicky feelings about driving. Then I’d get there and the panic would stop, cause focused.
Today is different because my hair is in one of those ponytails where only the part up to the band has been brushed smooth. I wear my Pusheen tee and sweats, no makeup.
Moo turned to me a few minutes ago and asked, “Are you happy you don’t hafta hate this time of day now?”
“Yes. Am happy, thanks.”
I plan to be pickle-eatin, tee-shirt wearin for several weeks, and then I’ll see what’s out there to focus on. I gave my two-week’s notice yesterday, but at the end of the day, I was told I could hand over my office kip and not worry about coming back.
Two weeks with my kids before they go back to school again.
This time matters.
My father passed Sunday morning.
He had FaceTimed me for the first time ever the night before. It was good to see his face and the light in his eyes, even if he barely resembled the man I remember. His slender countenance reminded me of photos of his mother when she was a young woman, a thought I kept to myself at the time.
I was grateful to hear his voice again. I am now even more grateful.
I’m still processing my grief. It comes in memory snapshots. It comes in phrases. It comes in an onslaught of emotions. Meaningful, but uncontrolled and indiscriminate.
This time matters.
I have time to process, more time to write and stare at my trees, more time to balance myself out. I’m in a weird place right now, which is okay, cause I was in a bad place before this weird place — but The Hanged Man winks at me and The Rolling Stones give me a song to sing.
I’m with my family and this time has meaning.
Do you feel time on your side, too?