I walked down the steep and dusty hill in beat-up jeans that I had bought in a secondhand store in Santiago. They fit poorly and were seriously worn out, like most of the clothing we wore then. I wasn’t pregnant yet but while I navigated the path I daydreamed of you. What would you look like? Would you have my eyes? Would I be a good mother? That July, I knew you were a girl - before the doctor said it, before I heard your heart beat for the first time.
don’t know how to begin this, my last post on my blog. (Edited to add: it wasn't.) When I started writing here four years ago I was in desperate need of an outlet, anything to help me process what we were going through. I loved retelling my stories here – when our car broke down for the fifth time that month, when I had to walk to the bus in the pouring rain in an orange jumpsuit,when I found out I was pregnant with Lu. The writing helped keep me sane and made me feel connected to the people and places I missed – it served me well.And now, it’s officially been two years since I left Chile.How is it possible that that much time has passed? How is it possible that it hasn’t been more?
I woke up New Year’s Day, shivering in a tent for two on the cold ground near the herb garden on my friend’s farm. On account of my clumsily spilling an entire bottle of red wine the night before, I had soaked myself in the good stuff and was paying dearly as I slid my frozen, wine-stained clothing back on in the early hours. My tent companion slipped away to converse with the other outdoor sleepers, the chickens nearby, as I hastily packed up the tent. I scurried upstairs to the farmhouse, content to find proper breakfast, coffee and a hot shower awaiting me.
I dressed in the vintage sweater I bought that November; it was like wearing an old memory. It hung too big on my frame and had seriously seen its best days long before it came into my possession but I loved it. And at ten dollars, I happily scooped it up, excited about our impending journey.I had worn it while we plucked the quail feathers for our wedding, sipping red wine out of coffee mugs in the backfield by the fading zinnias and carrots.
thought I’d go to sleep early tonight.So of course here I am at 11:15 reaching for an entirely unnecessary IPA while this hurricane rattles the trees outside my window.
It’s always been difficult for me to be present. Caught in daydreams, I’ve spent a good chunk of my life imagining what comes next – a different adventure, a change of scenery, the ideal life. All this distraction comes at a cost however and while constant change is good for the story, it’s oftentimes bad for the soul.
As any mother of small children will tell you, there’s never much time to be alone. And regardless of your profession or work status, mothering is a full-time position. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t overwhelming. Some days it’s overwhelmingly full of big joy and laughter and other days it looks more like me barely keeping it all together, summoning all the patience I can manage to make it work.
We are moving in two weeks. And in my frenzied attempts to clean and purge things I no longer use, I came across my old red suitcase. My parents had bought it for me in 2005 before my semester abroad – they said I needed a ‘good set of luggage.’ At the time it had two other luggage mates of different sizes, but this is the only piece I have left.
I drug it downstairs to check its contents – three maternity bras and an old pair of jeans. Everything smelled musty, like it had been sitting in a damp attic for a decade. I put the suitcase near the door and told Flynn to toss it since the main zipper is broken and the wheels don’t spin properly anymore; it’s like a grocery cart that rolls every way except the way you want to go.
I stared at it for a while as it sat with a pile of other things destined for the trash.