The Lettuce, My Sons, The Phone
Notes from a complicated Sunday
If today is hard, I want to tell you that I know. I am not going to ask why. I am going to sit with you for the length of this letter, and then I am going to let you go.
You may be several women at once today. The daughter and the mother in the same hour. The woman who is grateful and the woman who is grieving, and not sure how to stand inside both at the same time without one of them tipping over. You may be a mother to children who are here, and a mother to one who is not. You may be the daughter of a woman whose body is no longer the body you remember. You may be missing someone who is gone, or missing someone who is still in the next room.
I am not going to tell you which of these counts. They all count.
Last week, I bought lettuce I did not need. I stood in front of the produce case for longer than the lettuce required. I did this because the house was loud, and then it was quiet, and the quiet was worse. The woman at the register said have a good day and meant it. I drove home. The dogs were at the door. They did not know where I had been. They did not need to.
I tell you this because errands are sometimes a kind of prayer. The aisle you linger in. The cart you do not fill. The phone in your pocket, you are not picking up, and the phone in your pocket, you are. The boys at home who will ask what is for dinner and not what is wrong. The husband who looks up from the coffee and knows anyway.
A complicated Sunday is still a Sunday. It still has light in it. The light is just doing more work than usual.
I will not tell you to call anyone. I will not tell you not to. Grief and gratitude do not take turns. They sit at the same table and pass the salt.
If you have a child who is not here today, I am with you. If your mother is here and far away in the same body, I know. If you are the mother and the daughter at once and tired of being both, I see you. If today is the easiest Sunday you have had in a long time, I am glad.
The dogs are at the door. The kettle is on. Wherever you are reading this, I hope someone you love does not ask you to explain.
Sit a minute. Then go.