The birds are laying eggs again, nesting. The new neighbor nests, too, a bevy of boys lie in the grass with her day afternoon and night, or they turn my chairs to the side and use them as goal posts, or they sit in a chair while she clips their hair and chatters above the din of birdsong. The cardinals have all gone and the sparrows have stopped trying to transform my mailbox into a nest. Yesterday I filled the feeders with seed and laid out a strange contraption that promises to nourish the squirrels. I’m waiting for the landlord to arrive and replace the lock, which will place me one step closer to certification.
There is something inherently obvious about loss in fostering. A child loses its parent(s); parent(s) lose children; trust is far out the door, a low-slung bag full of stories with it.
I can hardly wait to have this home filled with the tremulous energy of a child. I’m coming into a new self, one who seeks permanence, stability, concepts that still make me itchy and ready to run for the hills. But I’m sitting here, typing with my thumb, patient and curious about “settling down” and “settling in”. The week of dates with the wrong men is behind me. The week of no dates is here, posing as every other week I’ve lived in this state.
Perhaps growing up signals a space for solitude, not the kind I had in my 20s, angsty & distrustful after two miscarriages with two different guys, or the kind I sought in my 30s, deliriously in love with a woman who was my polar opposite, a lover of all things domestic and me, a lover of all things volatile. This solitude of the 40s feels quiet and inevitable and charged. Space to build a home, a world.
Here’s a micro story by Rigoberto González that speaks to aging.