Frozen In Time

We were told to simply "grab what we can," and when I stepped in that dark classroom I wasn't prepared for this wave of emotions.  I can't tell you how many times I have popped into my room over a weekend, winter break, even summer vacation because I needed something, or even had forgotten something.  It is always eerily quiet.  Things seem frozen in time. This time it was markedly different.

Fondly, I looked at Brady's red homework folder (which he had forgotten) and Anya had forgotten to put away both her markers and pens.  I touched them absentmindedly.

I  glanced at my post it, and gathered my things randomly.

I walked to the door, and came back to push in Aarav's chair.  I looked at our colorful PiKu poems on the whiteboard as I switched off the lights. "To be continued," I decided silently in my head. I propped the door open, balancing our classroom aquarium, and my book bag.  I never even heard the door close behind me.

Last straws

     When the commitments begin to build, I begin to do my best impression of Chicken Little. This week's meetings combined w/an impending teachers' strike,  picketing (of course)  living/coping with a  teenage angst and then sprinkle that w/a wee bit of standardized testing prep at school- found me making my final step.  When the going gets tough I want to get going. .
    I pull out my calendar, and start searching for a weekend that I can squeeze in a couple nights that will allow me to head up to our cabin. It's almost become an involuntary reflex.  I am never sure quite how I arrive at pulling out the calendar but I always get there when life has over asserted itself. Yes, I am so blessed to have an escape, but more importantly I also know when the camel's back is almost broken.

Halfway

    My mother was a concert pianist, and my father an English professor.  I was told as they dated that they frequently challenged each other, and my mother was known to quip, "Yes,  I will tell you all about William Faulkner as soon as you have told me all about Bela Bartok!" I thought my family was perfect, at least my mother was, until she got sick.
    My father tried to take care of her, but ended up moving us away, and she moved back in with her parents, and then eventually ended up in a facility.
    Years later during a  yearly visit to me, and her grandchildren, my father finally came over after declining many invitations to join us. He came awkwardly through the door, and stayed for dinner. After dinner he produced an Ortega weaving from Taos (purchased on an early trip together) and her favorite record- a ballet, Prokofiev's, Cinderella.  She took the record from him gingerly, though clearly she could not remember it. He was uncomfortable and I don't think I ever saw my father at loss for words before. They came out in monosyllables.  It was okay, though.  She had already forgiven him just as she always did.

Hyacinth

   No matter what kind of day I have had, no matter what is going on in my life, somehow the sight of my hyacinth struggling to burst through the soil, open and bloom never ceases to make my heart warm.  Kneeling down carefully, teetering on my heels, cupping the blooms with both hands, I  slowly take in their fragrance.

"Yes, " I can DO this. . . ," I return quietly back down the concrete path to our patio doors.

The Secret

    They are walking ahead of us now- their heads together in tandem.  They slowly nod together in understanding, giving their Dad and I no attention.  We can't hear what they are saying but they are laughing and Emma is using her hands to explain (she always does). My son says says something else, and turns away as they both keep talking intently.  I contently watch them in their familiarity. And for one tiny instant, I visualize a random afternoon of cartoons, and hands (much like paws) scooping goldfish out of colored plastic cups not so long ago. Sigh.