The summer of 2017--
When I covered a piano with an octopus and fish and bunnies. And we all went to visit it in the park. And then--
The next day we brought a hamster home in a tiny cardboard box. We named her Pop Tart. We fed her seeds. My children fell in love.
Meanwhile Canada caught on fire. We left Seattle, drove south, and didn't come out of the smoke until somewhere south of Portland. We saw the redwoods on that trip. We made our way back home on roads through my childhood; places of happy moments; and I wonder, did they notice that I'd grown? I remember so well that earthy red from when I was a child there. The color of the sun translated through the forest-fog. The color of the bark and the soil. Brown and red. Going on and going up into the sky forever. I see that color smiling at me mischievously, unexpectedly in other places in my life. It's the color of my older daughter's hair in the shade and her eyes staring into the light. Chestnut. Sienna.
And where the forest thins in the brightest moments of the day, the strings of redwood bark blaze like fire and oranges. Now I see my Eloise.
In those trees I am a child and a mother all at once, and there is only peace.
But it was in the pine forests, later, in August, where we stood and watched through black and foiled lenses, the complete eclipse of the sun. The scene composed of dust, scrub bush, ponderosa pines, and cypress. Not quite mountains, but larger than hills. This is the home of horses and labradors.
The children held their glasses mounted in paper plates up to their faces. They ate raisins. We all waited. First the sun became a cheese with a bite. Everything dimmed. The temperature plummeted. Then, finally, darkness. The sun is a hole in the sky, surrounded by diamonds. We could see the shadow from miles away, blanketing the mountains, coming toward us; a magicians cape breezing over top of us. A wave of black silk. It was dusk in the middle of the day for roughly 40 seconds. A planet shone, the birds went silent.
And then it was done.
Also this summer-- My older daughter went to day camp. She made a lanyard. My younger daughter discovered the joys of glitter glue and produced an astonishing amount of art-sculpture.
I neglected all of my plants. We missed the exhibit at the art museum, but we filled the kiddie pool with rainbow bouncy-house balls, and as I stuck my feet into them I thought, this very well could go on forever. This could be infinity, although I know it can't, not really. Because August is the last laugh of summer.
Finally, almost as a postscript, Tyler and I managed to sneak away for four days to celebrate our 10th anniversary. We remembered what it's like to explore a city by scooter, and stay out late sampling oysters with a whiskey fizz. We remembered.
And then we came home and soaked in the sleepy sweet smell of our girls' cheeks.
Tomorrow is the start of school. Tomorrow we will find our routine again.
But tonight is one more game of checkers.
When I covered a piano with an octopus and fish and bunnies. And we all went to visit it in the park. And then--
The next day we brought a hamster home in a tiny cardboard box. We named her Pop Tart. We fed her seeds. My children fell in love.
Meanwhile Canada caught on fire. We left Seattle, drove south, and didn't come out of the smoke until somewhere south of Portland. We saw the redwoods on that trip. We made our way back home on roads through my childhood; places of happy moments; and I wonder, did they notice that I'd grown? I remember so well that earthy red from when I was a child there. The color of the sun translated through the forest-fog. The color of the bark and the soil. Brown and red. Going on and going up into the sky forever. I see that color smiling at me mischievously, unexpectedly in other places in my life. It's the color of my older daughter's hair in the shade and her eyes staring into the light. Chestnut. Sienna.
And where the forest thins in the brightest moments of the day, the strings of redwood bark blaze like fire and oranges. Now I see my Eloise.
In those trees I am a child and a mother all at once, and there is only peace.
But it was in the pine forests, later, in August, where we stood and watched through black and foiled lenses, the complete eclipse of the sun. The scene composed of dust, scrub bush, ponderosa pines, and cypress. Not quite mountains, but larger than hills. This is the home of horses and labradors.
The children held their glasses mounted in paper plates up to their faces. They ate raisins. We all waited. First the sun became a cheese with a bite. Everything dimmed. The temperature plummeted. Then, finally, darkness. The sun is a hole in the sky, surrounded by diamonds. We could see the shadow from miles away, blanketing the mountains, coming toward us; a magicians cape breezing over top of us. A wave of black silk. It was dusk in the middle of the day for roughly 40 seconds. A planet shone, the birds went silent.
And then it was done.
Also this summer-- My older daughter went to day camp. She made a lanyard. My younger daughter discovered the joys of glitter glue and produced an astonishing amount of art-sculpture.
I neglected all of my plants. We missed the exhibit at the art museum, but we filled the kiddie pool with rainbow bouncy-house balls, and as I stuck my feet into them I thought, this very well could go on forever. This could be infinity, although I know it can't, not really. Because August is the last laugh of summer.
Finally, almost as a postscript, Tyler and I managed to sneak away for four days to celebrate our 10th anniversary. We remembered what it's like to explore a city by scooter, and stay out late sampling oysters with a whiskey fizz. We remembered.
And then we came home and soaked in the sleepy sweet smell of our girls' cheeks.
Tomorrow is the start of school. Tomorrow we will find our routine again.
But tonight is one more game of checkers.
