bright morning star

Last night, in a mad competitive rush for second helpings of an unusual and prized dish around here, one enormous gooey baked mac-and-cheese comprising shocking amounts of butter, cheddar, and gruyere which I couldn't not know about after having made it, one of the four dinner plates broke. We began with six, a gift from my mother after I admired their hand-painted dogwood design in a second hand shop many years ago. Now we have three! Yet we are four. And we should be five. Only three plates! What kind of family can't set a proper table?

Also I dropped my phone Tuesday, when I stupidly took it out to return a text while walking Ramona who predictably lunged for a squirrel at exactly the wrong moment, and now the screen is completely shattered and held in place with two strips of packing tape. I've missed multiple school meetings this week as well as street cleaning/car moving, a handful of emails, and a dentist bill. I forgot Gabriel's well-planned and oft-reminded-about bunk reunion for his special grief camp from last summer. I forgot things I still haven't realized I've forgotten.

Pandemics bring out the worst in me. I know, I know, in all of us - and it's not that we're bad, it's that we're overtaxed and bereft of routines and need human contact to feel normal. So we forget where our keys are and don't show up to meetings. I know. But it feels shitty. It triggers my childhood fear of being imperfect and thus unloveable.

A deeper grief still slips out during my morning walks with Ramona the dog. (I happened to have sought out and adopted Ramona for the express purpose of ameliorating our emotional challenges. Ah well.) Those walks make me wonder if all my surface level fretting about screwing everything up is just to distract me from this particular pain: walking the streets of this town, this neighborhood, being tugged along by my sweet new pup through the hushed morning air, I always seem to wind up on bittersweet corners. I walk by our old house, where my family lived happily, raucously together, and where my dad died in a hospital bed in the living room when I was eighteen years old. I walk by the first house I lived in with Mike, when we had one tiny baby named Frances and he grew a tidy garden. I lost them in the prime of their lives - they were healthy, powerful men, the center of my world, and I had to watch them become sick and die right here.

What the fuck Meagan, you might say. (I say that too.)

Or you might, as Gabriel, observe that God really does keep on smiting you, Mama.

To which I counter, honestly, that I had the very best dad and the very best husband for me in the whole wide world. That doesn't feel like being smited. That feels like fantastic good fortune.

But on those walks the grief over having lost the very best people hits me with an inexplicable freshness. It's searing. Sometimes I cry. This morning, instead, I found myself singing.

bright morning stars are rising
bright morning stars are rising
bright morning stars are rising
day is a-breaking 
in my soul

If you know that song, you know it is a lament, and a quiet celebration too. Oh where are our dear fathers is a bewildered, broken question that hangs and lingers, but then the song comes back again and again to the only answer that makes any sense: day is a-breaking in my soul. 

That's how I feel, walking my dog on the new-day streets of my city where my favorite people died. Cracked open to my grief, and with it the beauty of the pandemic-quiet, the spring that has stepped into full array, the chattering squirrels that Ramona runs after, the neighbors in tight pants and sneakers walking briskly in pairs. Sometimes I have wondered why I didn't take my children and run far away from this landscape that speaks so many painful stories. I think: who would stay here and keep walking these paths?

But it is all very precious to me. I don't want to leave it. On our walks I feel as I did in the early months of widowhood: alien, broken, awed. Like then, the late nights and the early mornings hurt the most. The pain of the whole world pushes on me.

I come home with Ramona and make myself coffee and feed her breakfast and we walk up the two flights of stairs together to wake Gabriel and then Beatrice as the rawness subsides and my day of carrying and anchoring others begins. I make breakfast, and then like parents everywhere I organize Beatrice's schoolwork and set up the computer for her class meetings, I review Gabriel's morning work plan, I set up my own work space. At nine I retreat to the dining room, shut the doors, set my ipad on a stack of books amidst many other papers and books on the table, plug in my ear buds, and begin my first session, hoping the sounds of kids negotiating screens and the dog barking and the dishwasher running on the other side of the door aren't too distracting. I run out between sessions and drag Beatrice away from Netflix and place her before something that makes me feel less awful, say hello to Frances, remind a kid to let the dog out, answer various questions before heading back for the next session. At lunchtime we always take a walk. Sometimes I do something awesome, like yesterday when I felt compelled to bake a lemon rhubarb bundt cake in the morning and did and it was a triumph, and later was present for a very beautiful and sad culminating goodbye session with a student I've seen for a long time. After work I exercise with the kids or alone or with friends distanced outside. This evening I joined some for Zumba which I executed badly, albeit enthusiastically, before countless park-goers, enjoying how little I cared that they saw me in all my confused, hip-shaking, which-way-are-we-supposed-to-be-facing glory. Then we got take-out pizza to celebrate the completion of Frances's first (of three) online AP exams this morning. The days roll on like this, one after another, in our very small world. I dole out hugs and tortilla chips and bandaids and songs and chores and advice and jokes and tears and funny dancing and memories and games and irritation and efforts to meet everyone's needs and help them feel heard and seen. Sometimes I have a pretty good time. Sometimes I feel like a total fuck up. But overall, it goes okay.

Until late, when the last kid is finally in bed, and I stand in the bathroom drying off after a shower or in my underwear with a toothbrush in my mouth and see my own reflection looking back at me, and she is a little confused - what exactly happened here? - and the loneliness comes rushing back. Then I am filled with a scoured out tenderness so deep and so wide that it seems my skin and muscles and bones cannot possibly contain it.

But they do. I never break. I crack and stretch and ache; I expand. It hurts, but I know I am making more space to endure the quiet beauty of the world when I wake tomorrow, click on Ramona's leash, and open the front door.