Her

Her fingers smell like rice vinegar from the dinner she just made. The taste of cinnamon coffee still swirls around her tongue--a sweet helix. 

She has two children she loves. Wildly. Intensely. The shape of her son's mouth breaks her heart. He gives the best, strongest hugs. Then there is the way her daughter warbles songs from the back seat. When the woman is driving a straightaway and reaches her hand back, her daughter holds it, fat fingers clasping long, boney ones.

Her husband is there and then gone. Stress makes him sleep. Which is not to say he's lazy, because he is not. She wonders if he's happy. She wonders this all the time. It seems so up in the air. She wonders how she contributes to his sense of well being, or lack thereof.

She pounds out words because she can't not. Some will be seen. Some won 't.

She's taken the sun for granted, and now that it's waning, curses herself for her presumption and apathy. Of course it is fading. She lives in Seattle. Now she will just have to wait for the sporadic days that are lighter than the others, a little warmer.

She pops her vitamins infrequently, at best. But she is fastidious in her oral hygiene. As she should be with how much her parents spent on orthodontia.

She saw a movie a few nights ago that both depressed her and made her feel horrendously grateful for what she has. It's good to experience those emotions in tandem once in a while.

Tomorrow, she sends her two children off to school. Despite how much she loves them, she is grateful. She thinks there may be something wrong with her. Because she doesn't mourn the passing of their childhoods, their increased immersion into the outside world. Someday she knows she will. But not now.

She sees the flyer for the pizza potluck at her son's school. She understands that most children can eat pizza. But hers cannot. Bitterness, paired with resignation makes her wilt a little.

Comments

[Tracy]

I love how you write.

[kcinnova]

Achingly beautiful sharing of yourself, Angie.

I encourage you to love your husband to the best of your ability. Workplace stress is at a high level right now, with jobs being rescinded all over.

A child in my youngest son's class has a peanut allergy -- not so severe that my son can't eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, but enough to be a big deal. I want so badly to reassure the girl and her mom that I do understand, that any treats I ever bring in will be with this child in mind.

[Leslie]

Damn. Good. Writing.

[Cactus Petunia]

Here I am, a fifty-something mother of two grown children with no allergies. How could I think those emotions were behind me? You brought them all back with just a few sentences, and made me feel as if tomorrow were the first day of school...brilliant writing!

BTW, I'm also cursing myself for taking the sun for granted!

[Parul]

You are an amazingly gifted writer!

[slouchy]

This is gorgeous, Angie.

[Kellly]

Slouchy Sarah led me here. Glad she did. I find this ache so particular to women, such a common thread. This post is so tender. I want to cup it in my hand.