white lines
“I’m not a Bob Ross,” says my-two-year old nephew who is sitting in a big chair around the craft table in the finished basement of my parents’ home in Indiana. We are here, in the land of flat and wide land. The place where there are trees and green and thunderstorms, of cornfields, of sky sky sky, and a swimming pool out back. We drove twelve hours yesterday in our new/old car and I can’t believe we’re here.
We left Brooklyn yesterday, around 8am, to the sounds of our neighbor friends saying so many goodbyes over and over BYE! I LOVE YOU. BYE! from their fire escape. They will move to Australia later this summer. I cry.
The night before last, the eight of us gathered in the courtyard of our building (these neighbors have long been away — are they ever coming back?), meeting for Snickers ice cream bars and moderately distanced goodbyes. There was a baby pool and a hose and my two-year-old neighbor got hold of the hose and sprayed us all with a jet stream of water and we laughed and laughed because all we could see was his smiling eyes, the little cloth mask covering his little face as he held all the power in his tiny hands. Afterwards, we all took a picture. I went upstairs and cried hard while I did the dishes.
Nothing is finished, everything is an unraveling kind of goodbye these days.
My part of the drive was short, but intense. Punishing raindrops smacked against the car as I struggled to see the road. Follow the white lines, I kept thinking, just let them show you where to go. I had my flashers on, the girls were sound asleep in the backseat as I propelled us into the daydarkness. A huge lightning bolt cracked the sky in front of us. I’ve already been struck once and I’m pretty sure it ups my chances for being struck again. I drove on, in and out of the storms, though the mountains, dark green trees were
held up in front of the crispness of the storm light. The in-between moments where Brendan would tell me, this is just how it’ll be for the next bit. — Ok. I can do the next bit. And then the next. The light was so crazy. I drove us right through it all.
A half-hour out from my folks’ — bing — the engine light went on. We got quiet up front/pushed down interior screams of frustration. We’re the ones that bought a twenty-year-old car. And here she was, showing her age.
The Moonwagon was tired, I think.
We made it. We stepped out of the car, wobbly from the long drive. I hugged everyone in my family. Immediately, my nephew asked me to play dragons with him. I asked him for a hug too. He did a funny sideways gesture, half-beckoning me with his right hand, half-looking away demurely. I scooped him up, overdoing it a bit — so much lighter than my kids! — balancing him on my knee as we touched for the first time since March. Hugs from my sister, my brother in law, my mom and dad. My body is still playing somatic catch up, processing slowly.
A whole day spent here. It’s easy to forget what’s outside. I will try not to.
Today, I saw the late-day sun between the trees while my brother-in-law called out “Hey! You can see the moon!” and I looked up in response, but from where I was sitting, I saw the sun between the trees and then I had this thought: You have to live with the engine light on. You just have to. This is real life. The engine light is always on.
