The days slip quietly by, an afternoon spent having a fit and recovering, jumping on the sofa, or eating yet another snack of avocado, banana, cheese, or pistachios. In all the quiet times, I hear you muttering little pretend play to your self, your clammy, tender hands building something enormous in your mind. But these days, your creations almost always end up flying.
I'm taken back to the last time you slept on me on a plane - well, you were already asleep, but I risked you waking up just to hold you. It was just 7 long weeks ago, the day I flew 3,000 miles by myself with just you and your baby sister all the way from Tucson to Portland, Maine. We'd been through a lot together that day; you knew my time-to-cooperate voice--one part pep talk and one part Mommy is a little nervous--and responded by being alert and helpful. You'd already been through two weeks of survival mode with me, complete with 112-degree heat, swamp coolers, sleeping on the floor all together, monsoons, and moving trucks. And I knew if I could just make it off this plane, we'd walk through the door to a new life.
And now, starting this blog, I realize though I'd love to record and share every moment, I never can. I'm working on being OK with that, but it's hard. You can't remember the constant gush of life, nor hear the constant hum of the plane, simply because they're always going on. You can only take pieces. And build them into something in your mind. And make them fly.
"If there were no wind, we might, we think, hear The earth grind on its axis, or history Drip in darkness like a leaking pipe in the cellar"
--excerpt from Evening Hawk by Robert Penn Warren