1. I texted Oldest at camp this evening about the storm that blew through before dinner:
Both Dad and I called out to the girls (from different parts of the house) to go to the basement at the exact same time. We lost a few branches and the roof lost some shingles, but otherwise everything was fine. The girls found this guy on our window afterwards—thought the storm blew him in, maybe.
Hidden deep within those words, or not so deep, were other words. Silent. Tucked into the memory of the other moths we have found as a family: luna, prometheus, sphinx:
I miss you. Your absence is exactly what it should be and I can handle it, but there is this constant ache.
2. Last week I visited the city that will always feel like home. Spent time with old friends and new, visited as many favorite places as I could. Showed Husband where you could get bakery samples big enough to double as dessert. Walked and talked and explored with a friend from high school and her young boy, noticed how much of the time he kept one hand touching her as he explored the world.
Underneath: companionship. Veins of it running deep, silent sometimes—even for decades—and yet they are there.
3. Found this the day before we left for home. I appreciate a gentle subversiveness. Underneath is a story: the impulse(s?) to leave one’s mark, to surprise, to change things.
I am doing my best to pay attention.
