September 27, 2017
57 days remain for me and the Motherhood archetype, and pangs of separation have begun to weave their way into the wild expectancy of transformation.
My own mother was still bleeding when cancer took her at 57. I’m not sure of my grandmother, whose life ended tragically at 55. Or my other grandmother who lived into her early 60’s, heart attack. Numbers are such a comfort to me. (I’m soon to be 54.)
There isn’t much talk of what it is to be on the “other side” of Motherhood. To belong, finally, or again, to self. Even while the heart’s capacity has expanded to include the entire world, like it did when we were children.
“Mom, where are you going in those knee-high socks,” my 17 year old calls after me, as I head down the driveway.
I look down and see that, Yes, I am wearing cream-colored knee-high socks. I threw these on as quick fix to staying warm this morning because I was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers (my sleeping combo since college) and I wanted to see him off to school.
“I’m walking down to the pond,” I say, “Come with me!”
He shakes his head and opens the car door, “You look crazy.”
“That’s the whole point of my age,” I holler back, past the pines, “I don’t have to care.”
He smiles, puts his school bag into the back seat, and follows me down the driveway.
“Do you smell the Balsam? Isn’t it great,” I say.
“You’ve kind of got an Einstein-esque thing going on,” he responds.
I run my hands through my silvery bedhead as we approach the road, hoping no one drives by.
“Is that mine,” he asks, pointing to the flannel over shirt that ties together the whole ensemble.
We walk a bit down the road, alongside the pond, and then onto the dock, until my husband pulls up with the car.
“He’s right. It is crazy,” he says, as we approach him. “But I kind of like it.”
“Don’t take the highway,” I say, “Take the back roads. It’s such a beautiful morning.”
I watch as the car turns around and then pulls past me, heading further and further away, and I wonder: Do I feel sad, or just right?
I pause at the water’s edge, and then with a lift in my step, turn back up the driveway, feeling less confident about my display of carefreeness out on the road, alone.
The Empty Nest Diary 