Hormones will do what they want. I read them on my skin. A change in shape. A difference in my body that I can’t put down to childbirth. Nothing is the same. Time does not cease its impact on the form. It drives on past my stop as I stand bewildered. This is not what I asked for. There is no control.
New life is everywhere and the sheen of public presentation remains. The baby wearing dad. The toys presented in the cafe to keep the little one occupied before their meal arrives. The unencumbered staring of glassy eyes as they take it all in. Nowhere the pain and the exhaustion. The worry is absent or hidden. The face of new parenthood in a way we can all digest. I have known it. That urge is awoken again- a feeling without reality or reason. A life behind a toughened screen.
I wonder if I would feel this way if Seb was still alive. I wonder if we’d talk about it. If we’d reason it out together. If I’d cry. If he would feel that terrible crushing pressure of providing for us. I can imagine but I don’t know. I have the feeling in my chest. That huge physical sadness. It is clearly over.
I can’t help but notice families. Two tired parents with several kids. All in waterproofs. The National Trust kind. Trips out with the dog; their cars full of junk and the scent of long adventures. I feel envy. I want that weariness as a replacement for my own. The hair scraped back, jeans and t shirt life. Nothing ever tidy. Sleeping in dishevelled contentment. The money comfortably there.
I imagine the creak of the original floorboards; the Victorian terrace with the door thrown open to the chaos. The sun on the stained glass; reminding us of the time we chose the paint colours that sat without scuffs for mere moments in anticipation of family life. The banister that always creaks. The black and white portraits by the family friend; the socks on the stairs. The house has a song. Visitors forgive the untidiness with the promise of homemade cake and happy occupied children. And they run. Up and down and through to the garden. All I have to do is love. Everyone is wanted. I will let my age show. Dialling up the colours as I change; scarves and beads. Slip on shoes of ultimate comfort. Artisan made slippers and woven hangings. The gathering dust unbothered by a cloth.
I write this and I am lighter. Full confession. A tumble into the domesticity I excel in. Looking out at a rain soaked garden; the old sash window ajar. An earthenware mug of cooling tea keeping me company as I type. Resting my elbows on an old wooden desk in the beats. As I tell. As I imagine. And someone is reading. Someone is comforted. Someone greets herself in my words. Himself. I have enough. I am home. I am untroubled when I sleep.
I let everything I have said roll around my mind. Then I see my life as a totem half built and the potential in the remaining figures. How many faces. Symbols of time and experience. This is where I build. This is what I have to show.
Although some opportunities are almost at their end. There is so much more. My foundations remain. I am full of things to do. There is a girl and a mother. There is education; there is the unknown. There is life.