I can feel my youngest child slipping away in increments. Her imprint on my daily life is fading, as if her increasing scarcity is preparing me for an empty nest. A few dirty dishes in the sink, pairs of shoes lying askew on the kitchen floor, her unmade bed, are mere traces of her presence. I pick up a discarded hairband off the island, my fingers brushing against the smoothness of the honed marble, and notice one long blond hair still tangled around the brown elastic. I inhale sharply, startling my dog Charlie who looks up at me with concern in her brown eyes. She is sitting at my feet, impatiently waiting for our morning walk.
Even in that moment, one of anticipated loss, I can’t help responding to Charlie. As I lean down to reassure her, I appreciate the perfection of her coloring; the black, white, and tan markings of her coat echoing the beautiful veins in the marble under my hand. When I stroke the top of her foxlike head, her fur is soft and warm under my fingers, unlike the coolness of the marble, or the lifeless strand of my daughter’s hair around the rubber band.
I have launched two other children away from home, and both times I felt the separation keenly, as if pieces of my body were being ripped away with them, their absence like phantom limbs aching. But with each flight there were chicks still remaining in the nest that needed me, who filled the indentations left by the one before. When this last child departs I will be suddenly redundant in this career of motherhood I chose so long ago. My body feels forever altered, as if these children have trod barefoot inside every one of my cells, leaving trails of footprints like a giant tattoo, permanently marking me.
I try to absorb the reality of an empty house. There will be no more meals to cook for this last child, no more of her laundry to do, no more loud music coming from her shower, or the sound of her squealing over FaceTime with friends. The quiet might be as difficult to endure as the still air, left undisturbed by her body heat moving through it. There is no escaping the finality of this outcome, an inflection point in my life that will mark a before and after. I can almost admire the symmetry of my being exactly fifty years old. If only I could live to be one hundred, and appease the math part of my mind.
Charlie circles around my legs, the sound of her nails clicking on the hardwood floor rousing me from my thoughts. “Ok girl, let’s go,” I say to her, walking up from the kitchen through the dining room, and up the stairs to my bedroom. She bounds ahead of me, to make sure I don’t deviate or dawdle. While I change clothes, she lies down on the floor of my closet, resting her head between her paws and follows me with her eyes. She doesn’t rise until she sees me grab my running shoes, only then certain of her outing.
I call for Hank on my way downstairs. I can hear him shift off of the black leather sofa in the TV room above the kitchen, where his coat makes him nearly invisible, and clatter down the back stairs to meet us. As I buckle on Charlie’s collar she grabs the leash in her mouth and starts growling in excitement. Hank waits patiently, tail wagging, mouth open in a smile. I am grateful for these creatures that still need me, who act like a balm on my battered heart.
Although I have been molded anew by the impact of each of my children, I know that they too are defined by me, and carry my impressions within them like tracking chips. I will not lose them. When the last one flies away I will morph again, and learn to live without her soft blonde head under my wing. But for now, there is nothing to do but stride forward. So the dogs and I set off.
留言