I hate it when I don't blog. My brain gets clogged up with ideas and thoughts and irrational behaviour sets in. I start ranting to the dogs. Take long walks through the sun dappled lane where new lime green leaves beckon me into their wombs and despite my rambling up and down the road, nothing comes out. White horses stare at me with an enviable arrogance and the neighbours seem to avoid my presence. Nothing works. I miss writing. I miss being able to write out all that belabours my existence.
I stood at the clothes line yesterday at exactly 10.55 a.m. H and I had come back from the airport where we left our son as he embarked on his USA adventure. Of course I cried. I cried at the very last moment. The moment where he had to pass through the security area. The moment where he bent down to kiss me. The moment when he turned back to look at me one last time. I was never good at saying goodbye. I mean ever. I mean is anyone ever good at saying goodbye, especially when you will not see that person for the next three months, when he is going to a city we know absolutely nothing about, when there are no guarantees.
We drove home. The day was bright and sunny. H and I talked about being parents. He said, I was a good mother. I always gave it as it was. I never pretended to be anything else. I almost cried again.
I went 0ut to the clothes line when we got home. I always find that to be grounding. The air and the sunlight and the call of the cuckoo and the pheasants mating off in the bog. The blackbird on the ash tree. My feet, bare in the cool grass and a basket of wet clothes that needed drying. I looked up at the sky and knew that the jet trail I saw was the flight my son was on. It was a long dab of white paint daubed from a smooth brush. It cut the sky in a clean way but left a broken cloud of dreams behind it. I stood and watched it and wondered how long it would take before it dissipated into nothingness. I saw him up there, reading his Oscar Wilde book, drinking his water, looking down at me at the clothes line, a tiny speck of existence and I wanted to shout out to him, to remind him of something that I could not recall. I wanted to say all the years of his growing, all the moments of him being beside me, in the winter, in the cosy stew-laden world I'd created, in the warm fires and baked cakes and the stories we shared and the fears and hopes we talked about and the not so nice times. Of course I didn't do that. I just hung out the clothes, evenly and hoped that they would dry and then I started to count the time difference between here and Charleston and I followed him every step of the way. Every damn mile was accounted for, every dream America might give him, every year, every month, every day and second of where he had come from. Everything that mattered.