I am finished with school. I am back to working full time. No more distractions. I am pregnant. I cry. Mainly just when I watch Grey’s Anatomy. I just wrote one incomplete sentence and five stupid sentences.
As I gradually approach the tall locked container, my heart jumps a beat with anticipation. Will today be the day? Probably not. Maybe. With a turn of the key, I see garbage. Crap. Useless rubbish. Credit card applications and ads. I slam the tiny door shut, turn the key and bolt back into my car and turn up the radio. Disappointment.
This sense of false hope continues for 1 week…. 7 days…… 168 Hours….. 10,080 minutes. Then it ends. In complete forgetfulness, I maintain the routine. Leave the garage 1 minute early, check the box, slam it shut and drive off to work. Then it pays off. It lays unaccompanied, concealed by the shadows present as if Hedwig was trying to mask it. One single envelope. That’s it. No garbage. I seize the article, see the addresser and jump in my car. It lays, undisturbed, unopened, unread in my purse. Then it starts. The tears. The same tears that I can’t control. I am 6 minutes from work and I can’t compose myself. What the hell is the matter with me? I have received a dozen of these before. Why now? I don’t even know the contents. This shouldn’t be happening. It gets worse. Images of Harry Potter and Power Rangers encompass my temporal lobe.
I create instances that haven’t happened yet. Escalators, balloons, posters, tissues, hugs and tears. I didn’t cry 22 months ago when we had this same occurrence. Why should this be so unusual different. I don’t have distractions. That’s why. Nothing else to occupy my time then counting down the days, imaging how different life will be for all of us. How much closer the others have become. How the sisters can read each other’s thoughts and laugh at just the sight of one another. How the brother is grown and supportive. The husband and he are best friends. What will he be like? The same but different I know. I prepare. I try not to think about it. It’s impossible. The tear ducts are still in production. I haven’t even read the letter yet. I haven’t written in weeks. I can’t. I just need him home. Back. I talk to him on my birthday. He calls on mother’s day, but I am claiming he is calling on and for my birthday. 60 days left. 2 fast Sundays to go. 2 Dr. Appointments. One Les Mis. 2 graduations. 8 weeks. We have so much to catch up on. There are so many movies, shows and oh the music. The music. How will we ever catch up? 60 days left, the rest of our lives to catch up on the past 24 months. But it’s right. It’s been hard. I think the hardest on me. Mom will say differently but it’s sucked. More than anyone knows. Brian knows. But my little boy will look up to him. His uncle. His uncle that set the example first.
60 days
