I wait inside this booth surrounded by acoustic egg carton foam and the dampened, swallowed-up vacuum that comes not from the presence of silence but the absence of sound. The magic is gone, and so is he. A friend tells me this place is liminal, the state of mind of passage, of the space between who I once was and who I’ll be.
On the battlefield you know where you are, the pop and breeze of bullets cramming a panicked heart up high in your throat. Even safe again, ears still ringing, you’re never allowed to forget. At this moment and for many months now, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how to be his mother. Not when I can’t summon him anymore. I don’t know how to get him back. I don’t know if I’m supposed to even want to.
Alone this weekend for three days, sans-boys big and small, I worked and wrote. Up until 2 AM as usual, but without the 7 AM wakeup of little bodies tussling in my face. I wait inside this house surrounded by the echo of autonomy that comes not from the presence of self, but the absence of them, and despite the bliss, my stomach turns with wanting. In the meantime I drink wine and eat homemade carrot-brie perogies, and stomp indiscreetly and listen too loud, marinating up to my neck in what once was, and what might still be.