Last night I drove Henry to baseball practice, parked and turned off the engine. I pulled out an IEP that Sophie's teacher had sent home for me to approve -- there had been some small changes made in wording, decreed by the downtown beast that is LAUSD -- and my eye caught the box at the top that detailed the dates of Sophie's first and most current IEPs. Date of Initial IEP Team Meeting pulsated, and before I could even blink, the numbers coalesced into some kind of black arrow that pierced me right in the middle of my forehead so that tears gushed out and Sophie's three-year old self in 1998, her curly head and lopsided smile, her slanted walk and the hold your breath promise inherent in the unknown appeared in the car and I was fifteen years later undone. This is how we do it, the moment only mindful of the weight, not so much a black cloud but an arrow to the mind's eye, a rock that crushes the flesh, water and blood.
On the way home, Henry and I exclaimed over the moon in the eastern sky, a gigantic golden disc that retreated as we drove toward it, moonstruck.
Yea. You just go along and then something unhidden comes into focus and knocks you over.
ReplyDeleteBut then there's the moon. Thankfully.
I had a similar experience the other night. Indy was sick and climbed in bed with me and I thought about sleeping with her at my breast when she was an infant, and the fact that she turns seven this year, and wondered how many nights of her warm body curled up in mine do I have left? It's terrible, isn't it? I don't know how we do it.
ReplyDeleteGod, I love your writing. Moonstruck.
I recently had to renew my driver's license and noticed the "original date of issue" on it. It had kind of a similar effect without the emotional wallop of fifteen years' worth of IEPs. In June, when Nigel graduates, we start ISPs. New acronym, same piercing arrow. xo
ReplyDeleteI am struck by how those black symbols on a white page translate through the arches and curves of our minds to start a chemical cascade of feeling. I hope that, by now, you can see those dates and feel proud of the mother you are to Sophie, the ferocious advocate for her that you are, and know that it has made all the difference in her life.
ReplyDeleteLove.
Such sorrow and beauty. I am word-struck.
ReplyDeleteSending love.
N2
What N2 said.
ReplyDeletexo
sometimes the veil parts and everything is revealed, the arrow, the rock, the weight of years, but also the moon drawing you forward. you were crying as much for you, perhaps, for everything realized and unrealized. it's a gift that most days don't hold such unveilings, just one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time. you amaze me.
ReplyDeleteI am glad you can cry when you need to. I am sorry when you have to, when those piercings and crushings come.
ReplyDeleteSending love.
ReplyDeleteElizabeth, you make me want to be a better writer. I love reading your words, particularly in this series. You're amazing.
ReplyDeleteI am so sorry for this pain which struck you. I think I understand that sudden piercing feeling, and I am with you in spirit.
ReplyDeleteoh, you got me crying now!! so so so beautifully said. poetic perfection.
ReplyDeleteI am sorry for that loss, and so grateful that Sophie has you as her mother.
ReplyDeletethis is an exceptionally fine posting, elizabeth, altho i think that reflexively now, at least once a week.
ReplyDeletewe saw that amazing moon here, on Monday night, out walking before dinner. i kept stopping to stare at it...and had that overwhelming sense of what a miracle life is, our existence on this tiny planet in the middle of the vastness of beauty and nothingness. i know you know that feeling.
I see the moon, and the moon sees me.
ReplyDeleteThe moon sees somebody I long to see.
God bless the moon and god bless me,
and god bless the somebody I long to see.
I'm sure that does seem like a lifetime ago.
ReplyDelete