So much happened in those years. I nursed my last baby and celebrated my first teenager. I concluded my teaching career. I walked with my husband through the loss of a parent. I battled with my child through a series of mental health crises. I ghosted the Church. I separated from friends. I sheltered my family through a pandemic. I never wrote about what was happening, though, only what it felt like.
Like grasping at vapor. Like fighting in a fog. Like abandoning my humanity and becoming an android. Like disappearing into myself.
I move languidly from chore to chore, wiping peanut butter off of surfaces, running back and forth to the store for the items that disappear faster when everyone is home, losing track of hours and days and weeks. Routines govern my life, and in the transition from spring to summer, all routines are upended.
This last week, Holy Week, I have felt detached, almost dissociative. I whittled my chore list down to the bare minimum, procrastinated on writing jobs, and napped while the kids were at school. When my family was home, I went through the motions of care in a fog. I baked a cake for C’s sixthContinue reading “The Brood: Vigil”