Saturday Morning

I wake just after 6. (I woke up early even before kids.) The kitten -- Little Black -- purrs and her whiskers tickle my face. I reach my hands out of the warmth of my blankets and touch her face. I slept alone last night. "Why don't you sleep in the boys' room," Andy suggested to me on the phone last night from Canmore where he's gone to climb ice. So I slept on the double bed we set up for them when it became clear that their bunk beds weren't working yet (we ended up on the floor in a pile on a futon every night). I had good dreams, warm dreams of Andy.

As it is the first official full day of my writing retreat I immediately went to ... the kitchen and emptied the dishwasher. Then I folded and sorted laundry and cast about for many other household tasks which seemed extremely pressing. The house is tidy, the floors so clean you can invite your mother-in-law to eat off them.

And here it is: 7 am, and I'm sitting at my desk. The sky is clear, a pale lime green at the horizon and clear, faded denim blue at the top. A few people are up, every now and then a car passes by on Cedar Hill Cross. Little Black swats my ass at the back of the chair as she dashes by. I turn to find her looking at me, whiskers bristling. As I reach for her she flips around and runs down the dark hallway, her white paws flashing. She's a black cat held by the scruff of her neck and dipped in white paint. She thunders about on her delicate feet. I'm glad she's not squished on the road.

Words from a cousin inspire me this morning. "I have no idea how I could cope to not be with my sons every day," she writes. "They become such a huge part of our soul. I so wish that you did not have to have any days or nights without your boys, but the fact that you are willing to do a 60/40 split with Steph right now just shows how much you love them and put them first in your life even though it hurts so deeply."

Tears, of course. And the coffee's ready. I sip, sit down to write. Feel hope rise with the sun. The kitten tilts her water bowl up and laps water from the far side. We all do things our own way. We can't really help it.

Thank you for following along. It makes a difference to receive your love, your words of encouragement, your support. It means, dear cousin in Calgary, that this morning I can sit my butt in this chair, watch the screen through my tears, and keep my fingers nimble as words spill out over the keyboard. It means that I can allow the story to come through me, through the density of my bones and blood. Despite the sadness in my soul, I feel joy and peace and the great equanimity that accepts everything as it is.

"You are doing your absolute best to cherish every moment and experience that you share with your children, and you are writing about these treasured moments which will be such a gift to look back on as they grow older."

OK, here I go.

It would have been a clean kill. A blow to the head with a cast iron frying pan. A little blood and brains with the scrambled eggs. Or maybe an overdose of ativan in his artichokes. Oh, shit, he hated artichokes. Had all these particular tastes. Had to put this with that, and these with those. That’s what you know about your lover after ten years. Every last little detail. How he spits out his toothpaste. Where he scratches first in the morning. All the pauses and twitches. The most vulnerable spots. The spots where it hurts the most when you push hard. Which is what you start looking for when one of you falls out of love without the other’s consent.