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Running Toward a Lonely Deathbed
Thoughts on the nature of springtime
The pea-green tinge of spring gives me hope during the month of April. This isn’t new information — just the same ‘ol game I play with my brain sponge each year when I look out on the trees and see the faintest bloom of new leaves upon branches.
Often, only the eager eye can spot the tinge. Tilt your head and squint while on your daily walk, and thar she blows, spring has arrived!
The sight makes me wonder who I’ll be this time around. There are the givens: mother, writer, raccoon enthusiast (as most of my social media bios would tell you), but this year the uncertainties outweigh the inevitabilities.
This year I’m as close to a blank slate as I’ll ever be.
One of the overarching fears I face in my day-to-day life is that I will turn into my father. I don’t worry so much about turning into my mother unless it’s in the sense that I worry I won’t turn into my mother. I’d love to be like that lady one day. There she is, a living room filled to the brim with houseplants, and always a good book in hand. Mom is the kind of person who has a seemingly unending docket of wacky life stories and yet never had the desire to start a blog.
