Trees and Tracks

So how am I doing with the Jonas Leaving part? I’ve been getting asked this question a lot. But I guess it’s not so sudden for me, since I’ve been processing it already for about three months. Actually, now there is almost a sense of relief—he was accepted and the decision has been made. The hardest part was not knowing what the outcome would be, the stress of amped up focus (on wellness, on all the hoops for jumping through), the worry for “what if he goes?” and “what if he doesn’t go?”It hits me in the car when I am driving alone. This year, we share a commute to school together: such a gift. I have my own private DJ every day, who tortures me with Michael Bublé (hilarious, right, that this crooner is my form of torture?), but will also choose songs he knows I like in equal measure. And we always pull into the school driveway on a pump-up song, played loud. We also talk.So when that passenger seat is empty and I’m driving my usual route alone (rare, but it happens), and I have to pick out my own playlist (no one is selecting music by request), and there’s no one to talk to or process with, and no one to tell me about a computer simulation he was doing online to balance the national debt, or about how I could be parenting Sylvan better or differently, or about the conundrum of separation of church and state yet it’s OK to swear on a holy book (why not swear on the Constitution, if you please?), it’s in those quiet, boring moments that sometimes just a few sobs come out.        When we visited the school, I was almost crying too, being there and recognizing a place that seemed so right for this boy. How will it feel for our family to be suddenly three? How will it be for Sylvan to be our only? I can only take just the one step at a time right now. But since I’m a trusting sort of optimist, I think it will be like our life is: mostly great, with occasional bumps. We’re lucky. So lucky. Spring Walk Poem

I started the day resentful of the cold, the dark, of the getting up part.

Sleep just kept pulling me down like drowning back into the seductive warmth of my bed.

It was also a take-Sylvan-to-school-with-me-extra-early day — another body to feed, prepare, nag, jolly and mobilize on time.

So thank god he wore his Superman socks because we needed all the help we could get.

23 degrees felt nearly tropical, so we had that going for us. But I forgot my hat.

The afternoon, however, was gentle.

When I got home, all I wanted was a walk.

The air was fresh, the sun was warm,

and the ground eased under my feet with spring mud-softness.

In the shadows there was still that snap on my neck,

and back to hard brown ice, crunching and slick.

Every step had to be mindful, nothing certain or expected about the surface of the earth.

My feet were leading, a sensory organ,

and I was observing fine details:

the brown lace edge of a puddle

and the lazy swirls of mud water trickling in a crack.

It looked like solid ground, but with one confident step forward

my boot squished deeply into brown frosting

—a trick!—

so airy and light that I wanted to sink my bare, pale winter foot right into it,

up to my ankle,

wiggling my toes into that smooth, cold wetness.

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