Getting Crazy

 

For the first time since my son died, I’ve been left alone for longer than it takes to visit the chiropractor or have a music lesson.  

It was my choice.  I could have tagged along but it costs so much to board the dogs, and then there are the chickens.  With temperatures soaring above 100 degrees every day they need extra care.  I’ve put ice in their waterer several times daily, fashioned a pool out of an over-sized plastic bowl, and managed to gather the eggs before they fried inside their shells.

I had all kinds of plans.  

First and foremost, I thought to write.  All that quiet stretched before me like a highway I could litter, uninterrupted, with words I wouldn’t forget while answering questions like, “Do you think I should get a Ford F150 or a Chevy truck? ”  He’s 15, and that learner’s license burns a serious hole…

Malaise hit me on Friday afternoon, just before I left the office.  I did what I always do, I ignored it.  I bought dinner, I went shopping, and I baked four loaves of chocolate zucchini bread.  I’d promised the boys they could take some on their trip.  I’d also promised the kids next door they’d get a loaf out of the next batch.   And, there’s that co-worker who greets me with hungrily expectant eyes every Monday morning.

Once the travelers were on their way, I was disappointed to walk inside the house and discover all the usual “stuff” needed doing.  The kitchen was a wreck, the furniture needed polishing, and there was no way I wasn’t capitalizing on oven-like temperatures.  I had laundry to do.

I’ve noticed this phenomenon before.  For some reason, as soon as I’m left alone at home for any length of time, every imperfection is magnified a-thousand-fold; as though, suddenly it’s all mine, and I’m responsible, and if it’s needs fixing I need to fix it, before someone comes and sees it.  I’m sure it all stems from the time when I was 22, and a new Mom, and my Mom came to visit; only I didn’t know she was coming.  There’s only so much you can stuff under the couch cushions before its actual dimensions start to change…

By the time I finished housekeeping, it was 5 o’clock.  The day was done and the chair, now that I had a chance to sit in it, was cozy.  

This morning, malaise made another appearance.  Only this time, I was alone.  I didn’t have to ignore it.  I could languish in it.  I could baby it.  I could sit and wonder why it came, and what it meant, and I could doze.  So I did.

There was a point, during one of my treks to the henhouse, when I knew I could be crazy.  Nuts, even.  It was after I’d dumped the ice.  The latch on the gate refused to slide back into place.  The fact of my leopard-print pajamas became important somehow, as I wrestled with the handle; winning, at last.  And, I knew it, absolutely.  Were it not for all the reasons I have to be sane, I would most certainly be crazy.

It would be easy, really. I can tell, having considered it, that it’s just a slide, and not a very long one; not one of those really, really high ones that scorch the backs of your legs on your way down.  It’s a short one, like the one attached to the swing set we had in the backyard when I was a kid.  It got hot, too.  But, it was so short, it didn’t matter.

And slides are easy.  You just let go.  You just stop trying.  You slide.

My friend lost two sons.  They died within a few years of each other.  She’s never been the same since.  

Now I know why.  

From my new vantage point, white-knuckled at the top of the slide, I understand.

She let go.

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