The concrete seat, cold at my back, reclined enough that I could watch blackbirds streak across the sky like the tailends of blooming firecrackers, trailing shadowy wakes of negative space.
Quiet for a moment, Adela lifted herself and in warm green apple breath asked me to count to five by sixes. We discussed the possibility of this, her brown eyes comprehending, then she announced in a loud stage whisper -- appeasing the falling night, I'm sure -- that it was time for us to go.
The sun, now hastily tucking into its own raspy silence, ignited the sky with pink as we drove home.
I emailed a friend tonight who, like me, works full-time and raises a daughter. I shared that the hours between 5-7pm are the loneliest of all and wondered if she finds this to be true. For me, this shift marks a turning point in the day when all activity must gradually grind to a halt. It is the frustratingly impossible stretch when I squeeze evening meetings, errands, homework, dinner, bath, and bedtime books into the sleepiest part of my daughter's day. It is the solitary juncture when sunlight fades, the lights come on, and the front door closes for the night.
It is the time of day, for me, when everything left unsaid usually remains unsaid.
These are the hours I wish someone was here with me; sharing the load, loving the journey and, sometimes, showing me the way. But then, like now, my daughter rushes over and stands at my shoulder, bringing sprightly vitality into my tired, seated space. Her hair smells of playground and classroom and I can feel the buzz of youth under her skin.
She wants to know what I'm doing and reaches for my book with little pen-marked fingers, turning its heaviness over and over, her purple nail polish glinting and worn. Her interest is as solid as her energy in this moment and, for the time she is near, leaves no room for anything more.
In the overpowering felt splendor
every sane mind knows
when it realizes--our life dance
is only for a few magic
seconds...
- Hafiz
Last week, she came looking for me as she was getting ready for bed. "Mom," she said, rubbing her eyes and standing there her pajamas, "I feel like I need something....but I don't know what it is."
She is just a child, I remind myself, when the spark of wisdom I see flashing in her eyes floats airily out of her mouth. And I know she's got a lot of ground to cover on foot before her wings unfurl and take her into the sky. But in these tiniest of instances, when time hangs suspended between day and night and it's just the two of us drifting in the transitional space, I know exactly what she means.
~ Katie
Poem from The Gift, by Hafiz, p. 259
For my friend, Alice...
