All In Good Time

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The baby rolls over and time rolls along with him. He sits and watches his big brother play. I fold the tiny onesies and stack them in a box to be donated while in our shed, the bassinet waits for a new home. It’s worth at least a little something but I don’t have the energy to deal with selling it right now. Every beginning houses its own ending and the problem with time is that it keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.

The garden is late in its blooming this year thanks to a cool, dry June and a rainy July. My summer flowers are still only buds. Our seasons are shifting just enough to be perceptible but not so much that I know yet how I am meant to adjust. A riot of yellow awaits us—the black-eyed Susans are nearly ready. Every day I check for flowers, eyeing the dahlias with their tight green buds for signs of petals ready to burst forth. Almost, almost, I tell myself. The problem with time is that it goes at its own pace no matter how desperately you’re waiting.

We have a list of school supplies we need to purchase. My son’s tennis shoes have held out through the summer, but the rubber is running away from the soles and he’ll need a new pair for the school year. He has learned how to tie his laces on his own. He spends his days reading chapter books. He rolls his eyes at me like he took lessons from a thirteen-year-old, and yet, he is still a little boy and his eyes start to fill with tears when he thinks about how nervous he is to start school again. I tell him he is not allowed to worry about it for another two weeks. He still has camp to finish up and we are still waiting to take our only trip for this summer. But it’s coming soon, he argues. But it’s coming either way, I say. Feeling sad won’t stop it from happening, so we might as well try not to let it ruin what bit of summer fun still remains. I don’t tell him that I can’t wait for him to go back. I am craving the routine of a school day.

Recently I made a decision that will change my future. For good or bad we’ll have to see, but I’ve made it a goal to be more optimistic. What good does fatalism serve in a dying world, apart from, I suppose, being able to say I told you so?

As I write this, we are waiting for a storm to hit. My house is made of heavy stones that are two feet deep and it is like a fortress in a storm. Torrential rain sounds like soft patter. But we have a large window in our den where we can watch the weather shift, or sometimes we stand out on our small porch and feel the shift in our hair and against our faces. The wind picks up in bursts. The sky darkens, then brightens, then darkens again as clouds move through. The air is heavy with anticipation. That is how my life feels right now, every part of it on the cusp of something new, waiting to open up like a sky full of rain, like a garden about to bloom.

There is a tornado watch today which gave me the opportunity to tell my son about the tornadoes of my youth. The one I remember best was when I was in third grade. My class was the closest room to the end of the building and when they made us file out into the hall alphabetically so it would be easier to ensure that everyone was present and accounted for, with a W last name, I was at the very end of the row. I was the last person before you reached the big double doors at the end of the hallway and as we knelt in the dark after the power went out, our faces in our laps and our hands crossed over our heads to protect against any flying debris or shattered glass, I could feel the spray of rain against the side of my body every time the doors flew open and shut from the wind. Eventually, the storm subsided and my mother gathered my siblings and me from our respective schools and we drove home only to find the one road back to our house was blocked by a massive fallen tree. It had been uprooted by the storm and the road was completely impassible. “How did you get home?” my son asked when I told him this, marveling. Someone had to come and cut the tree into pieces so cars could get through.

The sky has turned black now and it is suddenly pouring. My husband bikes to work and is likely on his way home. He is out there in the downpour and will arrive, fully soaked and harried, just in time for dinner. The baby is waking from his nap and will want to eat. My son calls out from the living room asking for a snack.  The dog, hungry too, is sitting at my feet, hoping to be fed. This is the hour of the day when time stands still and rushes forward all at once. Everyone seeking satisfaction. Everyone waiting to be sated. 

I sit by the window and listen to the rain. Outside, the garden drinks and drinks, and prepares to bloom.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishediii. gardenthe garden growswildzinnia (seeds scattered by birds) in the neighbor’s yard—I wonder:why is everyone else better at this? I plannedfor dahlias, chrysanthemumglory of color to greet the day. insteadthe butterfly bush bends and sagsbeneath the weight of rainblack-eyed Susans overgrownyellow-petaled thrivingI suppose it could be cut back,dug up from the roots, turned to waste butyou should seethe way it shinesgold in the afternoon lightthis gardenthat growsall its own

From my chapbook, Mother Nature, which you can purchase in print, or read for free online.