I stopped writing fiction.
So. There’s that.
The summer just cut me up, in twos and threes and fours and fives. Until I didn’t even know who I was anymore. The summer always does that to me: all that time to fill with the children, working at the same time and no money to send them anywhere fun, all of us, drool-faced and crazed at the end.
I didn’t like the house for a long time this summer. I thought I could have spent my money elsewhere, more wisely. The summer of regrets, buyer’s remorse. I think of what could have been. All the things I wanted to accomplish.
I think of jobs and mortgages. The problems of time and money.
Woulda coulda shoulda, my mom says. What’s done is done.
But then the house is lovely again. There was a shift as soon as the kids were back in school, a release in pressure.
I drink my coffee and watch the water. I like it when it moves. Rippling. The heron, high-stepping his way around the shallow water, looking for fish to swallow.
We went to Warsaw and I spent the day in the pond spinning on an inner tube in the sun. The place still hasn’t sold. And I wanted to ask my husband, why don’t we live here? So I could be free?
And he just looked at me like: Divorce.
So there was that.
But then I let it go. Because there was also the the light and the pond. The last day of summer. The bliss of the moment. Spinning in the water in the golden light. My children, naked. All of us, together. Drying off after, our skin still covered in silt, driving home with the windows down.
And it was enough. It was more than enough for me.