It’s the end of the school year—a busy time of year for a teacher. In my little world, it means writing thoughtful evaluations, editing other teachers’ evaluations, and painting graduation caps and cards. It means writing graduation speeches, producing a school newspaper, and taking my 5th-grade graduates out to lunch and then taking a deep breath. Somehow last year I did all this while also planning my dad's Celebration of Life. Last year was a blur. Somehow I managed, through grief-soaked glasses, to fulfill my duties.
Although I love to write, I always need an editor or three, especially with something meaningful as an end-of-the-year evaluation. In my 7 years of teaching at this small special school, my dad was my editor. He would comb through countless evaluations and make insightful remarks about my students, he didn’t even know. Last year, he wasn't there to comb. I had great stand-in combers that did the best job. Now I'm back to it again, I am so grateful my mom is here to help. One day I'm going to need to edit on my own. I can edit other’s work, so why not mine? One day I will need to do so many things on my own, that is what the loss of a parent shows you. Even if we are grown, and independent, there are still pieces of life we lean on others with.
I'm feeling ready to write about more than grief. I started this journey writing about my dad because it was the best way for me to process my feelings. And now as I start to feel ready to write about anything else, I'm having a hard time figuring out what that is. I've decided to be upfront about that and see what comes my way.
In the evenings I’ve been dedicating some time to sitting outside. Throwing my phone onto my bed and walking outside. Damn, these phones. Once I get out to either my overgrown backyard or my front stoop, I pause and take a breath. This time of year, these long-winged moths are circling the street lamps. The evening air in Florida summer is often heavy and thick, but refreshing from my air-conditioned house. I have more time for myself now. My entire adult life I have been a mother. I was pregnant with my daughter when I was 19 years old, and now she is 15. This little girl who was always by my side, is now a confident, independent human who enjoys her friends so much (as she should). I used to have this internal struggle for some “me” time, and now I have more than I know what to do with, albeit sporadically. I'm not quite an empty nester but I am on the cusp. I still have a very busy work life and wonderful friends. I’ve just noticed that I am in a new phase of life. And with this new phase comes the gift of time. And currently, Summer Time.
Long summer days are the bread and butter of life. Waking up whenever my eyes open, forgetting that clocks exist. Summer days as a child seemed endless. Often an afternoon thunderstorm was the only clock I needed to note the passing of time. Thunder sounds, it's about 3 pm. Adventures calling before and after. The before, warm, and inviting a swim. Walking to the bayou or a good climbing tree. Bike rides to wherever not planned, no need. We planned to have none. Then after, walking out into the steamy, wet, plant-covered yard. Catching frogs or building boats to send lizards down the river road. I crave that now and forget that I can do that. I can take my bike out my front door and hit the bricks with no destination. I can venture outside after a rain with no intention, but to be in the elements. The summer storms are less frequent now. The weather has changed. Predictable weather patterns are a thing of the past, like childhood. But like smells and sounds, rain transports you into a memory you forgot you had.
Rain
By Roby O’Brien
Each of your drops
The way they fall and what they hit
bricks , pavers and gutters
Lawn chairs, water and the edge of
Limbs all a different sound
A random symphony
But you also look like tears
I do not know how old
The spanish moss is
It looks like it was born old
Gray beards on the live oaks
Distill your falling
into one
Large tear I still miss them all
And there is that smell
Particularly if you haven't rained
For a while against the cool damp
The warm earthiness of life and destiny
It is hard for me to read without crying, but I will read