As I hugged Mom good-bye at the airport, I crumbled in her arms, sobs welling from deep within my being. I will see her again.
Soon.
In two months.
For three weeks!
Still. The whole morning had built to this moment. We played in the yard with the boys. Max zoomed circles around on his trike. Jack mowed our neighbor’s lawn with bubbles. We went on a short outing and called ourselves lucky ducks to discover a mama and her ducklings waddling by a bridge. We shared our last cup of coffee together while the first breeze in weeks blew around us offering a welcome respite from the heat.
I took every moment for granted.
And why shouldn’t I? Why should spending my days with my mother and my children be considered a rarity? a luxury? a moment suspended in time?
All I felt the whole visit was normal. Things were as they should be. Within an hour of Mom’s arrival, I got the boot from bedtime stories as Max crawled onto his Nana’s lap. I relished the opportunity to show off my cooking skills and treat her to delicious meals. I nudged my mango tree to hurry up and ripen so she could taste its full splendor. Mangoes in Washington are expensive and unripe. It’s a fruit made (and made to be eaten) in the tropics.
It felt normal to have companionship as I moved through my days with young children. I absorbed advice given gently with the precursor, “Do you want to know my thoughts…” Yes, I really did. I enjoyed listening to the details of her days, from the breadth of her retirement dreams to the minutia of her work life and garden dilemmas.
The extra pair of hands and eyes made outings to the beach, splash pad and pool possible. Max and Jack are too young to go to these places without an adult devoted entirely to their safety. Often times the weather is perfect, the beaches are uncrowded and we have a day of nothing ahead of us, but we must stay at home because I can’t do it alone. A fate Jack most ardently protests:
I NEED TO SEE WATER!
has become the daily mantra of my one year-old tropical baby. Cried out in pitiful desperation.
I NEED TO SEE MY MOM!
I wish I could shout that right now.
And yet, throughout her visit there was sometimes a hardness, a bristleness, emanating from me at random points. What is that shell? I wondered. Is it because we are so far apart and then so on top of each other in my small house? Is it a coping mechanism to make our separation easier? Do I have PMS?
The day she left, I felt my shell crack during a morning hug I couldn’t bear to release. It shattered completely as we said good-bye at the airport. When it was already too late. Or maybe just in time.
So often, love is crying.
Me: crying because it is so overwhelming as it gushes out,
how beautiful our entire lives are.
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