Balancing on a high wire, afraid of heights, I’m in suspense. “Not like in a mystery novel,” I say, “more like suspended.” She gets it. 

I’m wildly running from pole to pole: abundance/scarcity, wealth/deprivation. That animal fear is in my gut; programmed into my DNA. I can see it in my mind’s eye – a blip on the double helix, so big in Biology books, so small in actuality. 

The real curse is how it’s tied to self-worth – scarcity snakes its way in and wraps around your very self like a cobra you don’t notice until you almost can’t breathe and you’re suddenly questioning why anyone would talk to you ever and why did you ever think you had anything to offer? And it goes on like that until you snap, eyes wide, body gasping; reaching for stasis in a room spinning with falsehoods. 

So you take yourself by the hand and find your comfiest pajamas. Pour yourself a small glass of that wine you bought a few days ago, as if you knew this was coming. You unplug yourself. For now the bills are paid, the children are tucked in, everyone has enough to eat, you can breathe. That’s enough. 

Sun roof open. Modest Mouse. Sam singing along. New dirt smell in the air. These are the moments that make up a life. 

Nora missed the bus again. Snowing. It’s a set-up for a frantic morning. Threw on the same clothes I wore yesterday – can still catch whiffs of last night’s dinner. Deep breaths and a treat coffee as reward. Maybe a nap later too. 

Just cold enough outside to feel uncomfortable, though the willow tree has buds all over it.

I’m feeling nostalgic after receiving an email from Nora’s teacher reminding everyone that the end of the school year will come, and soon. So this morning I’m slowing everything down and ignoring the lists of “shoulds” in my head. There’s cello music coming from my headphones as I watch the people buzz about me in the coffee shop – another odd, mismatched soundtrack.

Road trip day with Maia. 

Chocolate croissants for sustenance. We’ll queue up our tried and true playlist from all those years traveling this route as “just the two of us.” We’ll save Petula Clark for the drive through Chicago – as usual. When we get close, one of us will instinctively hit play and turn up the volume and we’ll blast out “when you’re alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go…DOWNTOWN…” We’ll sing completely free with no worry about feeling self-conscious as you can only do when you’re the mom and they’re the kid and you know the love is unconditional. 

And we’ll both feel the wind in our hair and the sun on our faces though it’s March and the windows are rolled up. 

The song will be over eventually but it’s always there because it always has been there as far back as she can remember. And this is how, someday – years from now- when, impossibly, she drives through Chicago without me, I will still actually be there in Petula Clark’s words and in the breeze and in the sun on her face.