When I listened to the message from the bus driver last night after dinner, I cried.
My husband had driven to the park to pick up our daughter from softball practice and our son was in the living room watching TV. I stood at the kitchen sink, tears streaming, dripping from my face to my shirt. I didn’t wipe them away.
The bus driver hadn’t said anything in particular, just wanted to touch base in case I had questions. She’d be a little later this year, she said, but she’d see me tomorrow. Tomorrow, I thought, then welled up. Tears of relief, tears of gratitude. I couldn’t contain it all.
This morning, the muscle memory of school stretches across us. Already I miss the do-nothing-ness of the last couple of months. But I can feel the shift in the air, the darker mornings, the cooler air. Time passes like it always has, even if everything for months has stood still. Maybe it’s just me that’s stood still. Now it’s time to move.
A few weeks ago, I texted my husband at work: I just want my life back. What did I mean? What life? Everything is different now and what I can only hope is that I’m different too. What is there to return to? There’s only right now and right now and right now. The future a slippery illusion in my mind; the past, foreign soil.
Who knew how many shapes life would take, how many versions of ourselves we’d become?
I’ve stopped longing for things that don’t exist anymore. Stay present, I tell myself. This is moment by moment by moment. I wipe relief from my eyes again. Whoever I was when this all began is gone now. I’m equal parts thankful for her and thankful that she’s gone. I kiss my kids goodbye, eat breakfast with my husband.
Today is a new day. Today is all we have.
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