It’s a tease, the wanting to leave. I feel like I have to apologize for it, that I can’t miss it, because we wanted to leave. Because we chose it, fought for it, prayed for it, jumped at it. The longing to go doesn’t place a lesser value on what we left, and it’s a tease thinking going will fulfill the longing.
Read morethe long goodbye
We just did that thing again. That thing where you wave at your dad from behind the glass, shoes off and boarding pass out. One or two children huddle around you, throwing backpacks onto conveyor belts and walking back and forth through the metal detector. Your husband waits for you on the other side, while you pass through security and from one life to the next.
On one side of the glass you are a daughter. On the other side, you are a sojourner; though, in that moment, you probably don’t feel like one at all.
I remember our first time. A baby girl on my hip and a little-boy-hand in mine. We left on a Sunday, a cavalcade of cars burdened with luggage and hopes, and a great deal of uncertainty. I pressed my forehead against the glass, the warmth of a sunny, late spring morning effortlessly pulling tears from my eyes. Turns out, even after four years of support raising, I was not-so-ready to forsake my Kansas home for Ireland’s green shores. My heart literally ached, threatening to break in two. A large group of saints gathered round us, hands on backs and arms, prayers lifted high by people I have known all my life.
I remember my mother’s proud cries, and my dad’s wave goodbye.
***
I'm writing today at Velvet Ashes on how we say goodbye. Would love it if you joined me there.
a year at HOME
It's somewhat ironic that as I write this, we're off the grid.
The home we built here in America - among our friends and family in Kansas City, squared in by coloured pencils on walls - has closed its doors. I hugged my mother in the parking lot of our apartment and said goodbye, again. We are living out of suitcases, many many suitcases, waiting to see where our home will be on the other side.
Read moreCry, till it's out of sight
Photo by Sawyer Bengtson on Unsplash
We have a moving tradition: we cry, till it's out of sight.
Our first home was in Oak Park. Matt moved in first, bringing hand-me-downs and woodworking projects to the brownstone apartment. I sat in the living room, under the bay windows, reading in a green chair. This was the life (as my sentimental mind remembers it): young love in romantic Chicago, stained glass over the mantle, a white cat and an antique bed ensuring - no matter how bad our fight was - we rolled to the middle, every night.
Read moreA gentle reproof over white coffee
We went on a date, the eldest and I. He's been curious about coffee for some time, and I can only assume this is a result of the frequent "Dad's Meeting Someone For Coffee"-and-"Mommy's Working From the Coffeeshop"-convos we have with the little people. He wasn't so sure on actually trying any of the black stuff, but was curious about this White Coffee his sister talks so much about (she who was known to finish our homemade lattes at the ripe old age of 2).
So we set a time: Sunday, dusk. Cold snap and rain clouds. Tall steamed milk with peppermint (him) and tall nonfat pumpkin spiced chai (me). In mugs, for maximum foaminess, please. We chat over the Sunday paper.
"So, how was your week?" he asks in his very best Man Tone.
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