September 2

The kids sleep in most days, a habit that we’ll have to break next week. For now, they sleep and I sit on the couch sipping coffee and doing morning things: a bit of writing and reading and sitting in silence. Once they get up, all bets are off. There’s too much talking. My nervous system feels overloaded. The silence is never, ever long enough.

I don’t miss the daily rush, but I miss being alone.

Wind swooshes the trees, branches bobbing like buoys at sea. We could all fly away, I think, or maybe it’s just going to rain. The tiniest things are a gift: a slice of zucchini bread with extra chocolate chips, the dishes all put away, a love song on the radio. I remember to breathe, and sometimes that is enough.

A woman stops her car on the grass across the street. It’s an empty lot, a wide gap between houses, and many drivers stop there. They’re checking their phones or taking a call. This woman, this morning, sits there too long. My silence is severed with questions. I wonder if she needs something.

Which, of course, she needs something. I need something too.

Everything is a crisis of confidence. Am I doing this right, am I doing that right? Resoundingly, the answer is another question: what exactly is right right now? I pray this woman doesn’t need my help and, just as quickly, she leaves.

We are in a countdown. We are in a forest. It’s dense and thick and I can’t see what’s ahead. I take a step, then another, reach for someone’s hand. The forest is breathy. Wind swooshes the trees. We could all fly away.

One child wakes up and sits beside me with an open book. “How did you sleep?” she asks. It’s the same question that starts each morning. How did you sleep? How did you sleep? We utter our short exchange and I reach my left hand across the couch where it lands on her arm. A quick smile, then we read.

Later, I’ll tiptoe upstairs to wake the other one and find him reading quietly in his room, not dozing like I suspected. The tiniest things are a gift: quiet and slow mornings, two children under my wing, a light rain on the window, a deep breath.