The Chapter in Which I Rest

The glow of the morning evoked the nostalgia of Christmas. I opened my shades to find the deadened October grasses crusted with snow. Northern Michigan at its finest. I forgot how quickly the cold consumes you here. But the deep chill returned to me that morning just as the scent of orange soap flips me several chapters back to my grandmother’s bathroom, looking in the mirror on my tiptoes, my wild childhood face reflecting back at me. I shivered and looked at the clock on my phone for orientation; how easily our mind can transport us into memory.

I saw myself there, laying in bed as if I were in the chapter where Winnie the Pooh first meets Tigger, counting his honey pots while just outside his door foreign sounds foreshadow the oncoming changes of his life. This morning, June was at her grandmother’s house and in the light of the snow, there seemed no purpose for me other than rest, to count my jars and take inventory of myself. Soon enough, the sounds outside my own door would greet me. I let myself rest a while longer before sneaking from bed so as not to wake Sean.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the practice of writing– what it does for me. Would I write a novel no one reads simply for the joy of writing? Sean says, probably he wouldn’t. But I think I might. Either way, I think he should write a novel, if not for others to read than at least for me. Marriage can be selfish like that though. You want to know someone so deeply and for them to know you that you begin to consider writing novels no one would read. You fill a lifetime together with beautiful stories only the two of you remember: the smell of dinner on the stove at night, hushed conversations in a darkened bedroom, a leftover bottle of wine on the kitchen counter; every small detail meaning everything and nothing at the same time.

I began making coffee while Sean slept. I tried very hard to be quiet and let him rest (we rarely have these opportunities to sleep in!). But every sound I created seemed projected by the emptiness of our home. The creaking of the floorboards, the ease of doing one task at a time, the clear thoughts in my head without a little one interrupting, it all just made me realize how lonesome I truly was without June this morning. As the teapot hissed, I realized I would rather be tired than alone. Sleep was nice, but being her mother is better. How could I miss someone so much?

I refused, however, to spend the weekend in remorse. Like the coffee cup resting on the counter, I would pour my energy into what was before me: myself and my marriage. I had an entire day with just Sean. I was determined to take advantage of it. As they say, you cannot get time back, so I’d better not wish it away. Today was meant for a new story and I would gladly write the pages of adventure. Outside my door, were sounds of foreshadowing. I poured my coffee, quieted myself, and sat down to listen to everything that might be.