The light outside my window shifts from each color- red, to green, to yellow and back to the original. I’ve got it down to a science- the pulling of the blinds upwards and the sliding of the drapes sideways so that with the window cracked only a bit; I can hear the cars roll by on 41. It all keeps going on, and the days in which I sleep alone- it shines something in on the darkness of my room. It’s not the dark that frightens me, or the satisfied feeling of sliding my legs back and forth against the bedsheets, (relishing in the space,) -it’s the silence. Sometimes, even when the window is open, I can’t hear a sound. That’s what scares me the most.
My daughter is at her grandparent’s for the evening. A bout of the ear infection that wouldn’t heal and my work being unrelenting in letting me take days off has made single parentdom more adventurous. In all reality, because of the Bre’s and my parents, and friends- I’m unabashedly blessed. But- in her absence, the silence is too much. Little snores, or her clock radio fill my nights. I went into her room and peered at the emptiness. I think every parent thinks for a moment, “what if this was my fate- should something happen, how could I ever face this room?” I closed her closet door as I always do, and laid down on her pillow. As much as she pushes me away- the goodnight kisses and the one snuggle I receive, (she’s so good at rationing,) is what I look forward to. A day will come when she will put herself to bed, but I can’t imagine a day will ever come that I won’t want to tell her that I love her, while I kiss her cheek. I know that will never happen.
Rooms hold echos of everything that no longer exists in their walls. I could swear I hear her little sighs or the rustle of the bedsheets next to me. I’ll giggle at someone telling me I’m a furnace, or wake up unexpectedly to run into Ava’s room to soothe, or distract her from a dream. There are some days when mommydom comes so easily- the days in which you mother with your heart. There are equally, (if not greater,) days in which you long for exactly what I’m intelligent enough to know exists in this moment- silence, freedom… (but what to do with it?) I know to relish this- but I’m human, and always seem to want what I can’t have. A body beside me when even a full bedspread seems indulgent, or sweet, toddler, stalling when I’m laying in the darkness.
My mother and I talked for a while this afternoon about my sister. My sister summed up in one word is: Indifferent. If her hair is stringy, if her kids are messy, if her life is insanity- she rolls, she doesn’t punch back, or dodge. She’s a weathered, discarded, soda can floating on a lake. Shiny and beautiful in the sunlight- beckoning- but lacks the motor to get herself to the shore. My mother asked if she should pamper my sister- get her a haircut. (She’s always buying her clothes for holidays or telling my sister to dress differently.) I dress ‘too old,’ she dresses, ‘too young.’ I joked that if there was another sister, she may be ‘just right.’ In the midst of it all, it struck me- I was having an adult conversation with my mother. 27 years- in the making, and she was asking for my advice. After watching the things my mother bought my sister be discarded to the back of the closet, I took some of the advice I wished my mother understood about me: She is herself. She will not change, or realize, because she is set. She may not be happy- but this- is easier than change. My mother was so concerned that my sister didn’t know she was pretty- and in secret, I hoped my mother said something about me.
I bought a dress once, low-cut and black. Tighter than anything I’ve ever put on. I felt overstated, fake, and filled-to the cup sizes with sexuality. I imagined her horror as I put it on. It wasn’t my normal understated shift with pearls, so I thought for sure at the low neckline and the tightness she would probably erect the Caffeine-Free-Diet-Pepsi from her nose. In my disbelief she told me she liked it. Yet- I remember leaving for dates with a shirt that only if I bent over would I show any cleavage and she always told me, “never bend down.” I wish I understood my mother. Maybe if she understood my sister, she would understand me.
This light outside my window never seems to turn green. I wait for the shades of change every-time I glance- but it’s always a bright, brazen, red. There’s a smell outside my window- like icicles. (Have you ever smelled snow or icicles?) Before the dirt overtakes it all- it’s intoxicating. So now you know, without anyone by my side- I fall asleep to red lights and the smell of icicles- the sweet intoxication of finding myself on Crosstown Blvd.
