Now, in the calm after the storm, we are sitting in the living room -- Ben is reading the paper, I am typing, Eden (who currently is a 16 year old named Bella who sucks a pacifier sometimes, a stranger who has come to visit but mysteriously sleeps in Eden's bed every night) is lying next to me spinning more of her story, and Silas is knotting a chain around the coffee table.
Our first week back involved nearly no emotional adjustment, which is rare and welcome, but the jet lag has been unrelenting -- everyone droops around 10AM and never quite rallies. But we've had a back to school party, visited Silas's elementary school (!!) and met his kindergarten teacher (!!!), had reunions with friends, and some time at the beach.
In the last month, Eden has bloomed more into a child, no longer a toddler -- she constantly tells stories, tells me she loves me, texts her "sister" on my phone, chatters away with dolls and animals, arranges creatures in houses and boxes, and prances and dances as she goes.
Silas begins kindergarten in two days. Thank goodness (for me) that he is nothing but thrilled about it, especially the lunch card he will swipe on pizza day. He's already begging to bike to school alone -- mercy!
I've been glad to be greeted by September, fresh new beginning, a month I've always loved -- new classes, notebooks, perspective. I'm trying to anticipate what the weeks will feel like, how we'll move in our new rhythm. My friends at the park have weighed heavily on my mind since I've been home: what can I possibly offer, give that will matter enough? Time, meals and friendship, yes, but what more? How will Silas do in his long days with new kids and countless conversations I know nothing about? I haven't written since May -- will the poems come back? These are the questions framing September -- the fog early in the month before the days crisp with clarity.
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