There’s so much life that I’ve managed to cram into these past two months. So much laughter and red wine and trail miles and meals shared. So many hours spent in conversation and in play and in travel and in not sleeping.
I have stories of backpacking and concerts and wilderness exploring and dinner parties and art creations and life decisions and changes coming. All being stored up for a quieter day and a less over-scheduled moment. This is my life in summer. And I love it.
Funny then how a dead halt to chaos can feel so natural. Funny how you can find yourself on an airplane just a few short hours after a text from your mom. Funny how a hospital room feels much the same at 2AM as it does at 2PM. Of course, it’s not funny at all, standing next to a bed holding the hand of a woman so strong in your memories and now so frail in this moment, comforting your Mema as she floats between moments of lucidity and confusion. Except when spooning tea into a parched mouth becomes a mess that leaves even her laughing. That’s actually pretty funny.
You become incredibly knowledgeable about non sequiturs to your daily life. I can tell you about MRSA. I can tell you about pressure ulcers. I can tell you about watching someone hover just beyond the edges of self-control. I can tell you about unexpected memories and moments that bring you to sudden laughter or tears.
And you wait. Your life on hold in these few precious moments before the whirlwind of life kicks back in. As the rest of the world barrels on, you learn quiet observation and comforting presence. You wait on the unknowable known.
I wait now, saying a slow goodbye with my family and Paul by my side, knowing that Monday brings me away from Texas’ expansive skies and quiet rooms and back to the barreling train that is a Yosemite in August. I wait now, grateful for moments that slip from our hands like grains of sand filling jars of memories.