Becalmed

I've escaped. Run off to my own life. It feels surprisingly good. After a sobering Thanksgiving with Mom, I have the need to be away. Coward that I am, I can't tell her so. I wait and call her from the island--Friday night, with a glass of bubbly in hand, and at least one body of water (Puget Sound) and 150 miles between us. I tell her--"I've gone to the cabin Mom...just for a few days." Mom says nothing. Talking on the phone, it's hard to tell what she's heard, when she's understood. There's no body language to read--no vacant eyes to refocus on mine, no neck to realign into my line of sight. Nothing to test for a live connection.

I read (two entire novels), slow cook a meal (roasted chicken with red bell peppers), stay up late, get up late, don't go for a walk or run. I do everything I don't in my other life, my life with Mom.

I don't even think about Mom.

On the flight home, I watch San Juan Island disappear through the glass. Folds of clouds obscure Cattle Pass. South Beach swims in a high tide. We pass one freighter on the way back--a barge pulled by a tug. We're too high up to identify the load, despite flying 500 feet above the Sound. It could be anything--logs from Bellingham, containers bound for the port of Seattle. Anything, but going somewhere.

Eerie plasma-like clouds follow us south, trailing and swirling like the tendrils of an egg poached to havoc by an inexpert hand. Just over Whidby, a portal opens up--blue sky beams down on what's below. Warm in this temporary sun, we pass forests, farm houses, cars driving, cars parked. Life moving on. Safe in my cocoon of flight, I feel none of this. This many feet above the ground, the world moves but I'm not in it. An illusion, it seems--to be stationary, becalmed in the sky when in fact we're moving faster than most cars can drive.

Over Seattle, I look for the Mirabella, a fortress-like construction between I-5 and Lake Union. From the air it's a castle, four towers guarding its four corners. I don't even wonder what Mom's doing. Tomorrow I will get the blow by blow from Lorna--what Mom ate, how she slept, when she cried, how many babies (BMs) she birthed.

Right now, I'm just content to do nothing. Watch the world move while I stand still.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--