I ran my hand, coaxing the soap towards the drain, over the slick porcelain of my tub tonight. Washing it clean for my kid to take her last bath, on our last night, in our house.
I hadn’t thought of it until I was running my hands smoothly and familiarly over the inside of the tub. Then it hit me that this is the last night. The last time she’ll be here in this tub, with this light, and this tile with the brown mottled pattern that I always see faces in. She’s still so small she can push off from one side of the tub to the other, and she likes me to watch her “swim.” And I wondered if she’d remember this place.
I feel like five years old is as far back as my first memories go. Further back, and I suspect it’s a creation from stories I’ve heard growing up. But five, I seem to clearly remember. I remember standing under a hibiscus tree that was as big as a house. I remember my mother screaming, then seeing a gecko’s tail wriggling, left behind on the kitchen floor, and looking up to see my mother on a chair — then wondering if it was okay that I was on the floor with the wriggling tail. I remember washing my hands and staring at the creamy blue bathroom tile in my friend’s house, my first playdate, while hearing her tell her mom that I had said “shit,” a word I didn’t know the meaning of but had heard somewhere. I remember getting picked up, held, and twirled by a ballerina in a white leotard, her hair pulled back in a bun, in the open-air thatched-roof dance studio I had wandered into. I had walked in, sat under a chair to watch them, and they just picked me up and danced with me.
I thought of all the lasts I’ve had in my life. Last houses, rooms, people, and places. It’s always such a feeling, to move forward, to release the things we think of as “ours,” especially in this case, with this house, when it doesn’t even serve us anymore.
I think the thing about any “last” is that it makes one think about…sometime.
Sometime, in the future, where everything will be last, no more, done. It reminds one that time is passing, change is happening, big or small, and that everything is finite…of course.
Or maybe that’s just me.
But I choked up on our walk tonight, taking the dog down to our dinky park. It’s always a quiet walk, no neighbors out, but it was still familiar and ours. The girls swung on the swings for a bit, and I watched the sun going down and thought how tomorrow night I won’t know. I won’t know what’s coming. If I’m being honest, we never know what’s coming even when we think we do.
I didn’t think my friend Mary Jo would stop by today, and I wouldn’t be home to hug her; instead, I would be holding my eleven-year-old in the car, on the side of the road, while she cried because we had to drop our cats at a border for the next ten days. I didn’t think when I ordered two cookies at the mall for the girls after looking for a couch for the new house, that I’d quickly order a third for myself (peanut butter) and eat it quickly and quietly, aware that I was trying to actively make myself feel better with salt and sugar. Or that tonight, I’d turn my heating pad up to 12 and lie horizontal staring at the egress window in my bedroom, convinced that I will always miss the way the rain fell on the cover, the sound of it, that I love this house and never want to leave, when the truth is…I just don’t want to not know…what’s coming.
It’s the worst, isn’t it?
Uncertainty.
And the best.
So, here we go.
Into uncertainty.
Everyday.
Here we go, friends.
This is Day 99 of my 100-day essayette adventure!
If you’d like to support my caffeine intake as we tallyho on this adventure, all forms of support are appreciated!
For anyone new here, please excuse any grammatical errors over the next few months.
100 days of writing means I write, and I let go, and then…I do it all over again — all while caring for two small humans, a small nervous white dog, and a plethora of cats.
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Our first book is Walking in This World by Julia Cameron.
The group meets starting October 19th, from 6-7:30 pm CST for 12 weeks (taking off for Thanksgiving and Christmas.)
We will read one chapter a week together, discuss, and work on the writing tasks as a group (on Zoom). The only homework is to read one chapter a week!
Once I get an idea of interest and confirm that this day and time works for the majority (there’s a spot on the link to suggest a different day and time), I’ll create a registration page for those who wish to register. It will be open to any paid subscribers.
If you’re interested, let me know here, and we will see how it all shakes out!
How is this happening that your hundred day practice ends on the day you move? Is that right? Is that what's happening? How did you do that? You must be magic.
Big Hugs it’ll be great! 😊