Bemoaning a lack of solitude
Amy and I sit,
masked,
six feet apart
in a grassy area.
(Amy F., that is, not to be confused with Amy V. or Amy M.B.)
Amy sits on a blanket
toys and trinkets scattered
in a circumference around her.
We are no strangers to a messy circumference.
I sit on a backpack that unfolds to a seat,
a prized possession,
admired solely
by other moms,
and solely
when we are at outdoor playdates.
Otherwise it’s a lot of:
“is your backpack a chair???”
Fuck you. Yes.
So, we are seated
in a grassy area,
in an abundance of fresh air
and still
six feet apart,
discussing
how different this pandemic would have been
had we not had children
. . . while our children
run in manic circles
and other patterns
around us
and over us
and through us.
how much shit we’d get done!
writing!
baking!
pilates!
I recall –out loud–
to Amy
how fifteen years ago,
I’d have whole Saturdays in solitude.
Sundays, too.
Whole Saturdays and/or
Sundays in
solitude.
I’d go to one of the coffee shops;
Columbus Bakery was a favorite
where coffee refills were $1.
Hours.
Literal hours.
(And you know I hate to use “literally”
figuratively.)
Actual, genuine,
sixty-minute spans of time multiplied by three or four.
HOURS.
Then I would jog.
“Around the reservoir,”
probably.
And then shower.
A long shower.
Then, I’d do, like . . .
what?
I’d do leisure.
Make calls,
listen to music
read a magazine
that was issued that very month.
And sometime later,
after the day could already be characterized as a day,
I’d meet up with friends,
hardly having voiced an entire sentence
until 9:00 or 10:00 PM.
We had it all,
Amy says,
as our children bulldoze by
catching more than a wisp of her hair
in the toy airplane.
“Ouch!” she yells.
Then privately to me,
when they are just out of earshot,
“fuck!”
“Sorry!” our two monsters say
in unison without turning their heads back.
We’re so glad they are exercising their legs
beyond the width of a living room
that we don’t demand
a more sincere apology.
Yeah, we had it all.
Well,
we concede,
we had all that time.
But in the immense vastness of hour after unplanned hour
you know what we were longing for?
a husband and a baby.
Or,
at least,
a baby,
and a well-timed, genetically-gifted
one-night stand.
But,
ideally a baby
and a partner.
I don’t want to do this pandemic alone.
I just want four Saturdays a month.
Okay, two.
Okay, one.
One Saturday a month
of bottomless black coffee
and a generous serving of no-one-needs-me-right-now.
And for all the other hours
the packed-in-a-two-bedroom apartment hours
the all three-meals-together hours
the has-anyone-been-outside-today hours,
I choose
the two I’ve got.
Their pair of faces
their two chins
their four eyes
their everything.
I choose you
I still do
2020
2021
I still do.
 |
| I choose you. |
 |
| Amy and the monsters. |
 |
| The monsters and me. |
 |
| messy circumference |
 |
| just look at them |
 |
| with Hamlet. |
