“My keys were missing the next morning, after pizza night. The family had divided into stations: some mixing/kneading dough, some flipping saute, others tending fire, a rotation of adults, tending children. All of this, while deftly navigating around construction debris. For when your life is a construction site, there is little else to do. It’s an advantage, to be one of those who can deal with chaos, and still hold forth to any and all, with a smile. I aspire. I remember times, that were much worse, with their unique overlay of personal catastrophe. This, has none of that, now. There are almost too many competent adults in the room. Well-adjusted off-spring so attractive, at first glance, one feels a bit of a tramp in comparison. Using the language of mythology, things come into focus, part self incrimination, part pride. In slang, off-the-record, I call my grown children “The Nordics”, as they seem almost super natural, endowed with halos or auras of limitless positivity, larger than life. Would this not be how the Norse gods conducted their business? Never mind trying to talk to them about it. They’re too busy building new life. They’ll likely all but ignore me. But if that’s the price to pay for having done my job well, when it mattered the most, I’d gladly pay double. And be tortured, now and then, by a lost set of truck keys, innocently, mistakenly picked up and carried off. Leaving me stranded and confused, for four hours, or so. Wandering the lawn the next morning, unsure of whether I had carelessly let my keys fall out while pushing the pram. Beholden to a system of one, being so much alone in the world. Retracing my steps, to the wood shed for kindling, to the elderberry tree at the top of the old woods road, to the mailbox, and back up the driveway again, to the makeshift path behind the timber frame. How I do miss partnership. Just someone to say: I’ve got this. As opposed to the panic that comes, when alone, as each new problem overwhelms. The shame of not feeling equipped to deal with anything. Which when alone, due to repetition, rubs raw into the very fabric of one’s safety and comfort. No one is assigned to help. Every ask is conditional, or requiring pay back. Ah, my life. Be my strength, be my rock. I f*ing hardly care anymore. Each day, the mountain heals, and leads me on a journey. Almost out of gas, I calculate which towns with gas pumps are how far. I count on the comforts of 10’ x 10’ cafe quick stops, with a place to park a large truck, and hours that match my roll thru. Walking into Sandy’s this morning, in Rochester, all the pain and isolation of the last year or so, pound within my chest. The smell of fresh pastries, organic food stuffs, coffee ... and walking in along the rickety porch, Larry catches my eye. “Karen”, he says, waiting for a response. I’m so grateful that he recognizes me, even if he’s got the name wrong. “Kristina”, I correct him. I could never thank him enough for having noticed me, a few weeks ago, on a 90 degree day, pulling in for a cold drink on my way home. He’d just closed his store, but he unlocked it and sold me two ice cold Kombuchas that I really needed ... let me pay cash, asked me in a friendly way who I was. And my kids. The cheddar folded into the spinach, into the hand made dough, the smoke, the artful attention to detail, the flavor ... and maybe someday, we’ll be able to talk about everything that happened. That would be absolute, gold.”
