So Close, So Far Away

I'm depleted. My soul is weary. I can't look away from national politics and I can't look at national politics. Friends tout fiercely held loyalties, my involvement feels inadequate because all I really care about is returning to a place where we are all simply walking each other home.

My husband misses his dad and struggles with how to be with me when I am completely out of sorts. He offers a hug after hearing the hitch in my voice while describing how a meeting in Hood River ended earlier than expected today and I used the time to visit my Grandma's grave; I say no thank you because I just want to be alone.

My older son has only about one quarter of his being still at home. I find a second-hand, yellow nightstand that will look great in his room when it is used as a guest room. I place it next to his bed and wonder how many times he will use it, my small way of bracing myself for the reality that he really is in the process of spreading his wings and gliding away, just as I have always planned and wanted. I try to be aware that I am attempting to fill the space he will leave empty with stuff; my sudden urge to redecorate the house is a distraction from the grief I pretend doesn't accompany big transitions.

My younger son stands on the precipice of the terrifying canyon of the preteen years. After driving me crazy with his antics, he says he just wants to be with me. I try to make time and space to be with him despite the fact that I really do just want to be alone. Tonight, that space looks like my attempts to take a photo of us. He giggles while covering the lens then promises to smile, fake picks his nose then promises to smile, grins a goofy grin then promises to smile. I nearly get him with a smooch on the cheek but he is just a little too quick. So close, yet so far away in more ways than I can count.