All has been quiet. A small boy with a fistful of action figure cake toppers weaves between piles of folded towels, sheets. It’s laundry day.
It’s been laundry day for six years over here, is what a girlfriend said to me recently.
This morning, I’ve searched my mind for a word to describe the season’s quiet. It’s not calm, given the aforementioned action figures, certainly the aforementioned small boy. It’s not noiseless, is what I mean.
Perhaps still is what I’m after. Dishwasher whirling. Dogs lapping water. Enough snow to soften our edges.
My entrance into 2019 began with much boundary-setting. The year prior had brought about its own share of excess, of loosening. I’d sensed the seams stretching, and soon after, burst.
One thing that spilled forth was sobriety. Another, more specifically: a refusal to participate in the marketing of alcohol to women. Another, even more specifically? A refusal to participate in the marketing of any product designed to make any human feel as if her current presence is unwelcome, i.e. anti-aging skincare, for one.
The result? A deep mission. Absolute purpose. Both, stories for another time.
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.” George Eliot wrote this, two centuries ago.
“It’s called beloved, not doloved.” I wrote this yesterday.
All else: leftover carrot cake, extra buttercream. I, Tonya on a Monday midnight. Dry erase portraits on the bathroom mirror, a garland of old t-shirts strung happily atop the fireplace.
A daughter in the midst of a book, asking the greatest question I know:
Why didn’t she try?