One word.  A thousand.  No matter how many, they’re never enough and too many at the same time.  Page after page, word after word – they lie crumpled on the floor, lifeless.  Ashes sprinkled into the wind.

How do you say goodbye?  Tallying the time, chronicling your life with us, synthesizing the memories of all your sounds, describing the space you hold in our lives – all those efforts fall woefully short. Still, I’m left with a hole in my heart.

So, I’ll let these one hundred words fail as magnificently as any other number.

Farewell, my dear, sweet Cal.

I step into the steamy shower and let the hot water run over me.  Forty hours’ worth of sweat, tears and more, all washed away; the emotional grime, scrubbed free and rinsed.  Clean.  Refreshed.  Refocused.

In the hospital, a new mother hobbles into the shower.  Hunched over, grimacing, her tears mingle with the water as they stream down her face.  No shower will ever wash away the memories, the pain, the hurt, the fear.  Her hopes spiral down, down.  Gone.

I feel so dirty.

Rituals can define a family better than any surname or genealogical tree.Affectionately termed a smammich, our family ritual began years ago between two young people — two slices of bread — lying one on top of the other, hopelessly in love. Soon, there was a slice of Zoe. And then a smear of Evan. A Dagwood of love.

Yesterday, my son plopped himself on the pile that was his mother and his sister, shouting, triumphantly, “I am the cheese!” Clearly, indoctrinated.

I had to hold my heart to keep it from bursting with familial pride. My own ritual. My own family.

A
vintage box of Legos — carefully stored since a father’s youth and
finally deemed suitable for an eager little boy — retrieved and
opened. Father immersed in pleasant reverie. Son swelling with
excitement.

But the strongest emotions came from the mother, the
wife. Unearthed after twenty years, the set was remarkably and
inconceivably complete despite a childhood’s enthusiastic use. As she
poured over the pieces her husband had toyed with so long ago, she saw
a window into the child who became her soulmate. Sturdy. Classic.
Imaginative. Strong. And careful enough to keep it all together.

Our vegetable garden has begun to come to life. Peppers. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. And sweet, juicy strawberries.

It has become a mantra, my morning visit to the garden. Irrationally but faithfully, I check each morning to see what has grown, and, in the process, ground myself for the day’s activities.

Zoe has her own garden mantra — her own yogic meditation. Zoe’s verbalizations, though, are far from the deep, rythmic Ohm of a Yogi. Her mantra is an original tune of fantastic porportions sung to the plants sprouting before her. Grow!

I have no doubt it will be the best harvest ever.

I hurled around the corner, much too fast for neighborhood travel. I was late picking Zoe up from school. In my haste, I almost missed a glimpse of my neighbor’s preparations for their upcoming out-of-town trip. In their driveway stood the accoutrements of traveling with a wee one: pack ‘n play, oversized stroller, infant bath, infant feeding chair, carefully-selected foods, and diapers, all waiting to be loaded up. A harried father stood close by.

I smiled as I flew past, the glimpse of so long ago kindly fading in my rear-view mirror. Traveling fast, I am. Should I slow down?

Family. Work. Home. Knitting. Painting. Writing. Doula Study. Home-improvement projects. Photo Albums.

You might call it overscheduled. You might even call it spread too thin.

I just call it lucky.

I already knew what I was getting for Christmas this year. A mistakenly forwarded email gave it away. Tim already knew what he was getting for Christmas this year. An ill-timed visit from the postman was to blame for that blown secret. There were no surprises awaiting us beneath the tree. Or, so we thought.

But Santa came.

“I hear Santa reindeer! Crash! Boom! Boom! Up there!” Evan shrieked at seven o’clock in the morning. There was no mistaking his excitement and joy. He believed it.

It only took me a moment to believe it, too. Thanks, Evan. Christmas Surprise.

Just today, my son had opened the car door by himself; my daughter had gotten dressed with nary a complaint. And I was celebrating a mini-milestone of my own: a museum trip without a stroller. I was shedding, one by one, the encumberences of life with two small children.

And then I turned the corner and saw that door. The Nursing Room. How many times had I stolen precious moments in that room? At the time, slightly embarrassed to seek out the key, but ever-so-grateful the room was there. An encumberence shed, so long ago. And missed, so much, today.

(Purely a writing exercise; Maybe a new series?)

Knitting, like any self-respecting passion, has its own set of lessons that apply well to life: don’t grasp too tightly; take the time to knit a practice swatch - it will save you time in the end; and, my favorite, some mistakes are more forgiving than others.

This last lesson requires a little more of yourself than the others. Those mistakes that are forgiving? Sure, the garment will hold, but it takes immense acceptance and forgiveness on your part to let the mistake lie, forevermore — even if slubs and flaws are exclusive characteristics of highly prized hand-knits.