Carpe Diem: Connections

"Oh," she sighed, a little catch in her voice. "I've missed this view. Black trees standing like that against the pink sky..."

It's true that the view was particularly lovely last Friday night. Tall ashes and maples, their bark dark as wet ink, reached up against a backdrop of rose and tangerine and raspberry. The sherbet sky glowed with the setting sun and sent golden light across the feathery tops of the trees along the crest of the hill.

Still, I was a little confused. My first thought was, "Obviously the sun sets in Georgia." What I said, though, was, "Surely you have trees that lose their leaves back home."

"Well, but, they aren't the same kinds of trees," she said. "They aren't the same shape, and they aren't so black, and the sky..." she paused, "it just doesn't look the same."

My mother grew up in Michigan. No doubt she saw that view hundreds, if not thousands, of times in her life. But it has been decades since she's really seen a Michigan winter. (I don't count the January she came to help with newborn Son, since all she saw then was our dirty floor, a lot of dirty diapers, my broken, helpless, first-time-mother self, and one adorably scrunchy newborn. There weren't a lot of dramatic sunsets in her sightlines that year.)

Even though I was driving, I looked hard again at that view which always makes me catch my breath. It felt good, deep inside me, to learn that something that so moves me had touched my mother's psyche long before I was ever born.

* * * * *

"Merp, merp!"

Splashing water and echoing shrieks of joy filled the air as we half-swam and half-ran through the pool, chasing each other -- my mother, my children, and I, playing water tag.

"The merp merp is coming!" Daughter said, opening and closing her little hands like crab claws as she slowly bicycled her legs through the water. Her bright yellow vest bobbed near her chin because she refused to wear the between-the-legs strap that would anchor it lower.

Son dodged out of her way, laughing with his whole mouth open, enjoying the illusion of speed created by his limbs thrashing through the water.

My mother, meanwhile, did a little porpoise dive and swam quietly out of reach. Pausing, giggling, my children and I peered into the water, searching for her hiding amidst the ripples.

"There's Nana!" Son pointed excitedly towards the deeper water. I glanced over and momentarily could not place her, then felt my breath suck in sharply as a I realized that the pink scalp I could see beneath the thick strands of pure white hair was hers. To be sure the figure was swimming a lap of sidestroke, something I've seen her do countless times. But when, oh, when? I ached to wonder, when did she grow old?

* * * * *

Laughing, the toddler and the preschooler careened back and forth across the sodden street. In the warmth of a brilliantly sunny faux-spring day, the gutters ran with streams of melted snow, while the shady places on the road were still covered in a thick layer of ice. Clad only in street clothes and coats, my children moved with a buoyancy that implied the lightness they felt, the joy at having left snow pants and awkward boots at home.

The plowed-up walls of snow that lined the sides of the streets were reduced to a two-foot-high berm of icy crush, as if an enormous Snoopy Sno-Cone machine had expelled unlimited quantities of shaved ice onto the curbs. Daughter grabbed a tiny handful in her dirty pink mitten, zoomed across the street and stopped suddenly in front of my mother. From six inches away, she hurled her prize at the hem of Nana's coat. "Gotcha!" she sang delightedly. Nana had the good grace to be astonished, as Nanas always do.

The snowball fight lasted closer to two hours than one. We moved up the street at the pace of melting snow, prefering the sideways trajectory to the forwards one. Son's path: Dash to promising point at left curb -- scoop up two giant handfuls of snow -- zoom through obstacle course of icy, puddled road -- slip -- fall -- laugh -- dash to right curb -- scoop more snow -- zoom more carfully this time towards "unsuspecting" adult -- shout with glee, "Ha ha! Double handful! Gotcha TWO times!!" -- run like a madman away from Mama, who is gearing up with snow of her own.

We laughed and played our way through two sets of shoes, socks and pants for Son, admiring the sky so blue, the air so clear, the day not-yet-warm but certainly not cold.

"It's been years since I've had a snowball fight," said Nana with a satisfied smile when we finally came indoors.

* * * * *

This is why I haven't posted much lately. I've been spending a lot of time just living. There are no photos. But there are memories of unhesitating snowball skirmishes blissfully free of any worry about camera safety. There are no daily posts chronicling the events. But there are glittering images in my mind of warmth and connection.

Across the generations, and within my own self, I have been striving for serenity. I miss the mark some days. But I have realized that if one spends a lifetime looking forward to the next big event, it may be possible to miss every single important thing that is going on today. I have always been a girl and a woman with goals, always known what I wanted to accomplish next.

But now I worry: if I focus on what's next, won't I wake up one day and find that the baby dimples are gone, and I don't know when that happened?

I have decided to live in today. Not without goals, certainly; I'm far too type A for that. But within the moment. Within the life I have. Within the lives of my children. Within the time it takes to interrupt the email I'm answering to place my daughter belly-down on the very top of my head and spin her around in the kitchen because it delights us both.

* * * * *

In the dim light, the lavendar walls are an indistinct color, except that I know precisely their shade, having chosen it so carefully when six months pregnant with Daughter. She is sitting up in bed at midnight, hair touseled, eyes closed, crying fitfully. A bad dream, perhaps? A night waking she could not soothe without the recently abandoned pacifiers?

Whatever the cause, my remedy is simple. I stretch myself out beside her, gently put her head back on the pillow, draw the cover over us both. Her small body relaxes. She quiets, breathes softly. When I am sure she is settled again, I make a move to get up and return to my own bed. Without opening her eyes, she reaches out her arm, drapes her wrist over my neck, and gently pats the back of my head. pat pat pat . . . pat pat pat. I stare into her face, obscured slightly by stray locks of hair; her eyes, closed peacefully; her full upper lip slightly separated from the lower one.

And I stay.

Awake at midnight, I stay, bound by the grasp of a tiny hand and the sweetness of her childish breath.