March is certainly in like a lion. Well over a foot of snow Friday night through Saturday. We woke up to the rattle of the plow, assuring that the mouth of our driveway would be completely blocked. Chickens couldn’t leave coops and my book event was canceled, so we pulled up the flannel sheets for an extra half hour of sleep. Snow Day.
I stomped my way down to clean the barn and coops while Paul pull-started the snow blower. If you stood quietly you could hear the familiar sound of winter clean up going on all around the pond, and the cackling of the crows perched on the skinny branches of the tree inside the coop fence waiting for their turn at the cracked corn. In Vermont, snowfall is always something you deal with and move on with your day. In that order.
When I came inside there was a phone message from Josh who was at [their] his and Al’s new house and, before getting to work had also spent the better part of an hour clearing out drive and walk ways.
Their house sale is final and a move in date has been set. At this point they are feeling grains of sand running through their hour glass as they hurry to finish sanding floors, installing heat, electricity and plumbing and checking all vital organs of their early 1800’s house. They have this window of time to work without living there and they are scrambling to take advantage of that gift.
As the move in is final, therefore, so is the move out. This empties the nest as completely as if it were turned upside down and shaken out. All four birds are flying. We are grateful but, once again, have to find balance in a new situation.
There has been a kid living in the house with us, even on and off, forever and the most complicated form of communication could be made in the form of a sticky note on their door. Not so now and it makes me feel weird. No longer is there familiarity in seeing mom scooting around in red long johns and sheep-fleece slippers, so I find myself dressing, smoothing my hair and practice-smiling for Zoom calls as if I were on an interview.
In the evenings Paul and I sit in front of the fire with a glass of wine and talk about whether or not to invite them for dinner, wondering if it seems to intrusive or if it has been too soon since the last time. When they do come, oddly it has the feeling of “company”. I fill a bowl with almonds and set them on the counter next to the burning candle and hurriedly clean stray dishes as they get out of their car in the driveway. They all come in without knocking – if not, that would take weird to a new height – and kick off their boots. First cuddle is for the dogs, second for me. I find myself feeling refuge tucked under the branch of my son, as big as a tree. It is as if there is a moment of reconnectedness in the hug. A reminder of who we were and what it all meant. I stay as long as allowed and let him break the contact first.
Our closeness from a distance makes communication even more important. Easy to have remarks misinterpreted when you can’t stomp into their bedroom for explanation. A sour phone call prompts me to mention that “I don’t think he likes me.” Even hearing myself say it makes me sound and feel like a seventh grader.
These are the people I know best. I pushed each one into the world and heard their gasp as they filled their first lung full. Having four sons, the growing years seemed interminable at times, a forever of packing lunches, buying lacrosse equipment, attending school functions. That time, extended out in front of me, was as comforting as it was challenging. And as one left home, there was always a younger sibling who needed enough to easily to fill the gap. Until there wasn’t.
I think about animals and their relationship to their mothers. Even if metaphoric, is it over when the swaddling stops? Should we be working harder at supporting separation rather than mourning loss?
While contemplating it, I find myself watching out the window when one of them is coming and duck, quickly, if they look toward where I am standing. Favored Christmas glasses, once used on a daily basis, are still in the cupboard but I have moved them to the back of the rotation. And only periodically do I stand in the doorway of a now empty bedroom and whisper good night.
In my mind (if not my heart) I know things are as they should be and I am grateful for that. So I’ll continue to try to play it cool and try, once in a while, to answer their calls on the second ring
Well said, I get. It.
Thanks for taking time to tell me.
Grateful.
So touching. So heartfelt. You captured the feelings of a mother so well. And, your writing, once again, make me feel. It is filled with beauty, as is your soul. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for this really kind comment. Probably highest praise is when someone tells me they can “feel’ what I have written.
I appreciate it.