Thu, 17 May 2012 18:59:02 -0700
I dropped Lion-O off at SFO this morning -- not caring much, because
the relationship is still new, about the punishingly pre-morning hour
or the chilly crepuscular fog, which, even in May, foreshadows a San
Francisco July of muted fireworks and sweaters. Draped his carry-ons
over his crutches (swing-sets apparently being more dangerous at age
24 than they were at 5) and kissed him goodbye for a week-plus.
Monday evening, making miniature pies in white ramekins, he sitting
near the kitchen with his bad ankle propped up on on ottoman, I paused
while cutting strawberries with a confession. And I've been waiting
I'm strangely fine with this. Waiting like this ten years ago (for
his return, for his reciprocation) would have ruined me. Instead,
after parking the Zipcar at 7:30am this morning, I made myself
breakfast, read the newspaper on the shuttle, worked a commendable
day, and am now on my way home to pick up my vegetables and make
marmalade. As if over the last decade some senescent lithium has
slowly moved in, evened out the highs and the lows, and left me merely
hopeful, optimistic, and calm enough to attempt jam.
It occurs to me to worry that that this product of maturity, of
domestic preserves and head-on-straight days of work, is somehow so
distinct at least from myself at 24 as to suggest an inherent
difference of age, something systemic. I try to dismiss these
thoughts; all I can do for now is wait -- without bated breath,
without counting the days.
Time alone will tell (he returns from Nashville next Sunday). And my
marmalade is improving with practice.