Worry

Now I’m alone in bed worrying. About the busy road and whether we can figure out where the invisible fence line is so we can put up some actual fence to keep Silas safe. About the renters’ tight budget and whether I can stand to have people there at all and whether we could survive without them. About the house and the strange layout and what flooring we should use and the musty smell and how much time I’ll have to clean before we move in.

Gordon isn’t feeling so hot either. He’s been pretty grouchy and has opted to spend the night on a thin mattress in the bonus room, hoping that will give him a better chance at sleep than last night in our bed. Our bed was bought as a temporary fix. Cheap and bouncy and too small, with the tendency to make a restless night snowball into a vicious cycle when occupied by two people.

All day I read about chickens and coops and tree houses and bees and flooring, and golden retrievers versus labs but it wasn’t fun. It was worrisome. So many challenges to overcome that haven’t even begun to begin yet. Gordon showed me pictures of manly vehicles that he is certain we will need, and dollar signs kept flashing up behind my eyes.

Eddie has been obsessing over the idea of building his own super gaming computer, and when he’s not holed up in his room window shopping online, he’s holed up in his room playing Minecraft online. At least he’s doing that with buddies. I’m worried about him too. A lot. He is changing schools because of this dream. He did go swimming today so that is something. I should have gone with him.

And then, lying here, I tried to take this alone time to pray and maybe reach out to my mother. But instead I just frettted more until I reached pre-panic grade anxiety. My mother has been gone from me lately. I’m not sure if she’s gone for good now, or not. But I miss her. I miss her a lot right now and I’ve missed her for a long time even before she died, but I’m sick of saying and thinking that. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself anymore, but I still can’t connect the dots on a path away from there. Maybe I should just leave that last part off. I miss her a lot right now. Period. Maybe there is no path away from those words except to stop saying them. I miss my mom right now. I want to make a garden for her. I told her before she died that I wanted to make a crying garden wherever our new house was and asked for the painted rock she made when she was young. In this garden, you can plant your pain into the ground and have it turn into something beautiful.

She said I could take the rock and then tried to get me to take some books. I told her that I would later because I couldn’t take them this time on the plane. I’d be back again next month to see her. That was April. I was scheduled to go out around May 10th or something. But she left us May 2nd. Then I took the rock and the books and her essential oils and her sweater and her Harry Potter dolls and her tarot cards and a few pairs of earrings and a few pictures and some things she wrote and her resume and cover letter when she applied for the nursing job she did for 24 years and some of her creams and vitamins and things. Going through her room was depressingly insightful to the absolute medical void her life had become. I kept opening boxes and things, hoping to find some sort of memory-filled treasure and instead found prescriptions or ankle wraps or ointments. It made me feel ashamed. For not being there more; for being disappointed in her disinterest in me. She had no interest in anything probably. I should have been able to understand that.

And now it’s one a.m. When I wake up, things will be better. It will be time to breathe in the air around me and breathe out my expectations. Everything will come together as it should. Tomorrow I need to stay off the internet and out of books and go outside with the boys. Maybe take them somewhere. Maybe Gordon would like to do the same.

Now I will close my eyes and whisper out to my mom and maybe she will visit me in my dreams.

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Author: Morgan Mill

Thanks for reading!

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