Just Be

It’s Tuesday morning at 10:46am. I’m sitting outside with my book, counting down to Andrew Cuomo’s daily press conference. My eleven-year-old daughter is by my side doing her math homework. It’s sunny and chilly. The birds are loud and the wind tussles our hair.

This morning has been different somehow. I woke up without the familiar heaviness, the dread. I fixed breakfast for the girls while my guy purchased more satellite internet tokens. I drank my coffee while the girls ate their frozen waffles and chicken sausage and sipped their juice. The girls began their school days and I refilled my coffee and sat outside with my guy. It was nice.

My nine-year-old and I curled up in one of Mom and Dad’s old chairs and I listened to her read aloud from her book. A story about a young boy who must win the prize money from a dogsled race to save his grandfather’s potato farm.

I watched some news. I jotted a few notes for the novel I’m writing, the novel I’m having a hard time writing right now. I fixed myself some breakfast. Instead of eating from the plastic carton, I put my coffee yogurt in one of my parents’ old mugs, sprinkled some chocolate peanut butter granola on top. I ate it slowly, actually tasted each bite.

I read some emails. Yesterday I reached out to some of Mom’s friends and family to say a long overdue hello, to see how they’re doing right now, to say that we sisters miss hearing about them and their lives. The notes back have been a balm.

And here I am. Looking out at the lawn where I once played endless games of wiffle ball with Dad. Mom’s dogs scamper around. The sun is even brighter now, the birds more insistent. Their message is bright, and clear.

Slow down. Breathe. This is okay. You are okay. This time is meaningful; just be.