I wake up as I hear my sister slip out of bed and start getting ready for work. The soft jangle of bracelets, impatient tap of high heels on hardwood.
When she closes the front door I suddenly feel like crying, and have no idea why. A feeling swamps me, grabs me, and all I can think is. “we’re doing it wrong.” and I’m convinced of this, I believe this, without even knowing what “it” is.
I miss my family. I miss them like a dull ache you get used to living with until suddenly we are reunited and I realize with a surge of joy that I can move again, breathe without pressure.
I miss them- I miss them.
I desperately want this loud rumble, this joyful noise to be an every day part of my life, especially now, but I can’t reconcile the ache with the physical distance, the buckets full of kilometers that always lie between us, spanning all directions like the errant spokes of a wheel.
I can’t reconcile it so I will revel in the few days of lightness, the absence of aching. We are lucky, so lucky, to be here and to have each other and be able to slip so easily into older brother, younger sister. Feet intertwined and voices happily drowning each other out.
II’m here in the soft light of 7:30 am, with one hand on my belly trying to decide if what I’m feeling are baby kicks, and although I know we are lucky I am swamped again and again by the inescapable, unassailable knowledge that we are just simply doing it wrong .