Thump. Thump. Thump.
With every step I get closer. And with every step I go farther.
Closer to home, farther from her.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Just keep running. Keep your mind on your breathing, on the beautiful moon, on the vans delivering boxes and boxes of goods to stores.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My watch reads 6.35am. If I run a little faster, I might just make it home before she gets into the taxi to leave. Maybe, but probably not. I know her well enough to be pretty certain that she is already downstairs with her luggage, waiting. As soon as the taxi arrives, she will get in and they will drive away.
So just keep your rhythm, stay with the others, chit chat about your day. Get rid of your blues by keeping your body and mind busy.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
As I approach my street, I look over to see if the taxi is there. It isn't, as I suspected. It is 6.40am on the dot, the time the taxi was due, but I know they always come early hoping to make and extra buck or two. They left, she is on her way to catch her plane.
With every step I get closer. And with every step I go farther.
Closer to home, farther from her.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Just keep running. Keep your mind on your breathing, on the beautiful moon, on the vans delivering boxes and boxes of goods to stores.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My watch reads 6.35am. If I run a little faster, I might just make it home before she gets into the taxi to leave. Maybe, but probably not. I know her well enough to be pretty certain that she is already downstairs with her luggage, waiting. As soon as the taxi arrives, she will get in and they will drive away.
So just keep your rhythm, stay with the others, chit chat about your day. Get rid of your blues by keeping your body and mind busy.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
As I approach my street, I look over to see if the taxi is there. It isn't, as I suspected. It is 6.40am on the dot, the time the taxi was due, but I know they always come early hoping to make and extra buck or two. They left, she is on her way to catch her plane.
I run on, no point going home right away anymore. I still have five minutes to spare. I watch the sky turn from pink to grey-blue. Then I say good bye to my running companions and sprint across the street.
Thump, thump, thump.
I enter the apartment. It is dark and quiet. The kids and F are sleeping behind closed doors but it feels empty. I smell her perfume, or something more subtle, perhaps her face cream? I glance into her room, see the tousled sheets. She has been gone for so little that her pillow might still be warm, but probably not. I smile remembering how much I had to insist last night for her to leave the bed undone... no bed making allowed before 7am when you have a flight to catch.
I am sad I missed her on my way back from my morning run. I would have loved to have said goodbye again. I am glad I missed her on my way back from my morning run. Good byes are hard.
It does not matter who you are or what you have achieved in your life, whether you have a career, whether you have won a Nobel prize, whether you are a mother, a father, a husband or a wife... when you are with your mother you are a daughter, you are a son, you are her child.
It takes time to readjust, to go back to being an adult with responsibilities and a family of your own, to protecting others instead of feeling protected.
We spent some lovely days together, the two of us alone and the two of us with my children and F.
We spoke, we laughed, we remembered, we ate, we drank. We went to museums and shopping.
We spent a decent amount of time in my kitchen chatting, looking through recipes and planning meals. I cooked, she watched and took note. She researched and suggested and I listened.
I may have mentioned before that growing up my mother was not a woman to wear an apron and cook up a Sunday roast. Having lunch out and seeing an exhibit was a more normal way for us to spend a Sunday. That does not mean we do not have our share of family favorites or that she does not know how to cook up a feast. And even if I do not have childhood memories of tinkering in the kitchen with her, I have her to thank for my love of good food and cook books, my fearlessness of trying pretty much anything.
We came up with this recipe together (and I created a new Pinterest addict in the process).
This, in short, is how it went:
1. Mom tastes friend's failed (friend's words, not mine) delicious cookies and is reminded of her love of florentines.
2. Mom starts obsessing about florentines.
3. We decide to dedicate an afternoon to baking together.
4. We make florentines, love them, but both agree they should have baked a little darker.
5. I want to show off my ice cream making skills and machine to her.
6. I decide to crumble the florentines and use them in said ice cream.
Thump, thump, thump.
I enter the apartment. It is dark and quiet. The kids and F are sleeping behind closed doors but it feels empty. I smell her perfume, or something more subtle, perhaps her face cream? I glance into her room, see the tousled sheets. She has been gone for so little that her pillow might still be warm, but probably not. I smile remembering how much I had to insist last night for her to leave the bed undone... no bed making allowed before 7am when you have a flight to catch.
I am sad I missed her on my way back from my morning run. I would have loved to have said goodbye again. I am glad I missed her on my way back from my morning run. Good byes are hard.
It does not matter who you are or what you have achieved in your life, whether you have a career, whether you have won a Nobel prize, whether you are a mother, a father, a husband or a wife... when you are with your mother you are a daughter, you are a son, you are her child.
It takes time to readjust, to go back to being an adult with responsibilities and a family of your own, to protecting others instead of feeling protected.
We spent some lovely days together, the two of us alone and the two of us with my children and F.
We spoke, we laughed, we remembered, we ate, we drank. We went to museums and shopping.
We spent a decent amount of time in my kitchen chatting, looking through recipes and planning meals. I cooked, she watched and took note. She researched and suggested and I listened.
I may have mentioned before that growing up my mother was not a woman to wear an apron and cook up a Sunday roast. Having lunch out and seeing an exhibit was a more normal way for us to spend a Sunday. That does not mean we do not have our share of family favorites or that she does not know how to cook up a feast. And even if I do not have childhood memories of tinkering in the kitchen with her, I have her to thank for my love of good food and cook books, my fearlessness of trying pretty much anything.
We came up with this recipe together (and I created a new Pinterest addict in the process).
This, in short, is how it went:
1. Mom tastes friend's failed (friend's words, not mine) delicious cookies and is reminded of her love of florentines.
2. Mom starts obsessing about florentines.
3. We decide to dedicate an afternoon to baking together.
4. We make florentines, love them, but both agree they should have baked a little darker.
5. I want to show off my ice cream making skills and machine to her.
6. I decide to crumble the florentines and use them in said ice cream.
The florentines were truly delicious on their own, but the ice cream was sublime: each custardy, rich spoonful studded with crunchy morsels of caramelized nuttines. I am sorry I did not get a better picture of it, just to get your taste buds going, but there was none left the next day to photograph in day light.
