Vincent Van Gogh/detail (visipix.com)
It’s a New Moon so there’s little light in the sky when my husband gets up before 4:00. He returns twenty-minutes later to kiss me goodbye, and though I’m groggy, I clearly hear the sound of the front door shutting and the finality of his tires down the drive.
It will be close to two weeks before we see each other again–which I suppose is nothing in the lives of businessmen or military families–but is twice as long as we’ve gone without seeing each other this summer.
As teachers, my husband and I are rarely separated which makes this parting prickly, but sweet, in that it creates a heightened awareness and appreciation of other. Of door latches. Of tires kicking up gravel.
“How’s your summer, Kelly?” a neighbor asks when I stroll up the road to the farm stand for the Sunday morning tradition of scones and coffee. The grass is crowded with Tevas and Keens and Birkenstocks and barefeet as we commune again in the rhythm of the season.
The berries are ripe for picking and the day which started cool and rainy promises to grow warm. Too warm, if you ask me. We’re all thankful for the recent rain which gives our place on this earth its lush summer quality. We’re not accustomed to the dusty roads and steamy nights of late.
I’m pretty pathetic at smalltalk, and never think to ask others questions like, “How is your summer?” and I’m just as hopeless at responding.
I once had a friendly chiropractor who started each session with the anxiety producing prompt, “What’s new?” I could never think of a single thing to say–even if practiced before hand.
The problem is that I’m always thinking in essay form, while the person beside is seeking fill-in-the-blank. Smalltalk is really just about making a connection. One is supposed to say, “Not much, how about you?” but my brain won’t work that way.
If you’d like to sit down with your coffee and scone and really talk about summer, I could offer this~
Mine’s been shaped by comings and goings–and that feels weird. Fragmented. Unfamiliar. Like the sound of a door closing at 4:30 am and your lover driving away from home.
It’s not just that my husband that’s gone, but the boys too. They left almost a week ago. And before that my husband said goodbye to all of us for the month–returning for an unexpected and blissful overnight visit.
In between, we’ve had company, who’ve doubled the size of our family and who have also come and gone.
It is I who have remained constant. Like a revolving door, my heart parts and receives and parts again.
Each time, I return to self. Lighter. Fuller. Unfamiliar.
How is my summer?
Strange.
How about yours?
