...a symphony of whistling and peanut butter.

Tonight I am sleeping in my old bedroom in my childhood home. All the bedrooms are above the garage. Mine is right next to my parent's. I stayed out here for a few weeks after my father died. First in bed with my mom. Reaching my arm out in the night to calm her when she sobbed in her state of half sleep. Eventually I moved into my old room. The first few nights it was like having a newborn. Getting up each time she cried and showing her I was there and confirming for her that he was not. One night the scream that came from her tired body was so terrifying. Strangulated and forced. Getting louder and more urgent. My whole body ached for the weight of her grief. She clung to me that night. A look of sheer terror in her eyes. She told me that she had felt her body being lifted off the bed. She was sure of it. She had seen him. And he was taking her. Eventually we gave up on the idea that she would be able to self soothe and achieve peaceful sleep. She began taking medication to sleep and has done so ever since. 

I haven't stayed here much since. The odd time when my sisters are here or at Christmas. But tonight I am alone in my old room. There are incredibly familiar sounds. The very faint sound of traffic on the distant highway. The rise and fall growl of an engine passing the house on the road out front. The constant sound of the vibration of the railroad tracks. It could be an hour before another train whistle blows but the tracks seem to hum perpetually with the friction of metal wheels on metal rails. And then the whistle. The comforting whistle. I don't even know how often a train passes through. The sound is not jarring enough for me to take note. It's just there or it isn't. Yesterday afternoon I know there were 3 during the funeral service for my uncle. 3 trains in that half hour. I reckon there might be fewer at night....

And tonight I am deafened by the sounds that are missing. My dad used to read insatiably. He would read in bed and fall asleep with his book in hand. He eventually installed a timer on the light. It clicked in rapid fire. Much louder than it should have for a device of it's size and purpose. It would make one loud click as the light turned out and then sort of fizzle out after that. That click and shift to darkness would often wake my dad and he would cough, roll over and turn the timer again. If that sound didn't wake him the sound of his book falling to the floor would. I think my mom slept with a light on more than off for most of her life. I often wondered why she didn't resort to sleeping in another room. 

There are other sounds missing. The whir and sigh of the air compressor, the ratcheting sound of something being lifted on a hoist or jack, the clang of indeterminate metal on metal.... The radio. The whistling. Oh and.... It's all flooding in. It's like a symphony.... The sound of a plastic bag having the twist tie removed. The slide and click of the toaster. The twist of the top of a peanut butter jar. The scrape of knife across toast. And the creak of that dining room chair....

It's strange coming home.  

...living in the waiting.

Sometimes you contemplate a line up and wonder if it's worth the wait. Dozens of people agree that standing on the sidewalk in the hot Seattle sun for a Caribbean sandwich is worthy of the hour it will cost them. I had to believe they knew what they were doing. My choice that Friday afternoon was to wait in the guitar store with a fidgety five year old while her sister and daddy shopped or move slowly down a sidewalk with a mass of "committed" individuals on the quest for roast pork and caramelized onions. 

Miss Lola and I walked the two blocks to join the sandwich throng and.....wait. I held her hand. Tried to keep her contained. Maintain our spot in the queue. Let her wiggle but not annoy the crowd around us. This lasted for..... 38 seconds. "Hi. I'm Lola. I'll be your friend" she stated confidently to the small child holding the hand of his young father a few spots in front of us. I shrug. That's all there is to do. This is her way and I will not stop her for the comfort of others. I occupy myself with my own people watching, looking up the menu on my phone, calculating how far we have moved and how much time we have left to wait. Lola has purloined the child's bubbles and is blowing them while he runs around bursting the little glistening orbs. He laughs. She chatters endlessly. She has discovered his name and that he's hopeless at blowing the bubbles himself but she's determined to teach him how. I make very half hearted attempts to reign her in but the truth is I'm inspired by her. She checks in with me often enough. My gaze meets that of the boys father enough to make sure he's ok with Lola's uninhibited friend making. He isn't entirely but I shrug again and smile. 

Behind us in the line is a Korean family. Multigenerational. All of them smiling. No one even remarking on the length of the line up. They are laughing. Talking about their order. And I notice.... The eldest man in the group has plucked a thick piece of grass from a vacant doorway and is weaving it. Slowly and deliberately. A half smile upon his lips. 

A fish. He has woven a fish. He quietly hands it to one of the children in his party, disappears for a few moments and returns with another blade of grass. The wait continued. The fish multiply.

At about the halfway point on our inch by inch journey to sandwich nirvana there is a vibrant man in a yellow shirt playing jazz standards on a flute. He enthusiastically speaks to himself between tunes and manages to keep the energy of his show alive by simultaneously being both artist and audience. Lola is captivated. She had found a nickel in the pavement earlier while blowing bubbles with her new best friend. After a good five minutes of summoning up the courage she drops her nickel in his hat. Doubling his earnings for his lunch time show. He plays "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". I sing. Lola dances. The crowd talks amongst themselves. The man weaves fish. Kieran blows bubbles. The line shuffles forward. 

The man is working on his fourth or fifth fish. Lola has stopped being bashful about watching and is standing directly in front of him.  He continues to smile like Buddha. She looks up into his face earnestly and asks for a fish. When he completes it he hands it to her. His smile broadens. She returns to snatch the bubbles out of the pocket of Kieran's father. I laugh and attempt to scold her utter lack of personal boundaries. God I love this child. This hot afternoon on the sidewalk in Seattle. The wait.

         

A lot of living happens in the waiting.

...a horizon.

I never thought I would be that mom. I had never imagined this moment in my life. The moment when I would gasp for breath at the realization that my baby was not a baby anymore. The tears would burn in my eyes and my head would feel damn near exploding at the thought that within the month I will have to decide where she will go to kindergarten. Yep, that's it. No big deal right? BUT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND...

I suddenly feel as though I have squandered these years. We didn't attend a single kindermusik class, I didn't take her down to the musty smelling community hall for baby gymnastics or hang out with the other moms at the public library story time, no Saturday afternoon baby ballet... I took her to work with me. She was dragged to fundraising meetings and coffee dates. She was my sidekick, under my feet, my blonde tornado, my partner in crime... she's been raised on a steady diet of roller derby mania and passive physiotherapy. She thinks it's normal that we have friends named Diva, Sweaty & Easy and there is an extra adult kid living in our house named Kitschy. She dresses herself in clothes built for comfort, favouring shirts that have a catchy message. Her hair is untamed and seldom washed. She can't print her name, sing her ABCs or count to ten. But she's along for the ride and she doesn't care where it's headed.

Suddenly all that time that stretched out before me has become remarkably finite. Years have turned into months and my time with her buzzing around making creative messes while I clean will soon come to an end. And tonight it has never felt so heavy. It's so ridiculously cliche to stand on this threshold and tell my tender mama soul that I should have cared less about my clean house and my healthy meals in favour of sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor singing songs with my toddler. But there it is. That's exactly where I am. And I'm wondering just how big a mess I can stand over the next few months. Cause that floor looks awfully inviting.