I am not going to Singer Island.
I just can't. I am so exhausted in the head that I'm trading a weekend with loved ones in a Marriott Resort at the beach for a weekend alone with the chickens outside and the frogs and bats inside a one-hundred-and-fifty-six year old house.
Is that sad?
Well, so be it.
Let us recap:
Starting in January, my mother died, I have attended four weddings, three of them out of town and one of them for my own daughter. I have attended a funeral for a thirty-three year old girl, also out of town. I have been to Dog Island for a weekend with my grandsons and their parents and my husband. I executored a will and then decided not to do that any more. I have cleaned out my mother's room and dealt with her personal effects. Mostly.
I popped my hip completely out of joint while dancing.
I have thrown one bridal shower and at least two birthday parties and one bereavement gathering.
I have been grandmother and I have been wife and I have been friend. I have been sister and sister-in-law and daughter. I have been mother. I have gone through a period of time where two of my brothers were not speaking to me. One of them, at least, is again.
I have gardened and walked and written and cooked almost as many dinners as there has been days in the year. I have laughed and I have motherfucking cried. I have tended dogs and cats and chickens. Maybe not very well but they're all still alive.
I have not lost weight, taken up yoga again, written the Great American Novel or even very terrific blog posts. I have not done a whole lot of cleaning. I have not been the greatest wife, mother, or friend but by god, I've been a decent grandmother. And I have kept up with the laundry. I have not resorted to daytime drinking nor become a prescription pill addict.
Lately, however, I seem to be crying an awful lot.
And all of these things both done and undone have finally had their way with me to the point where no, I cannot pack and get in a car and drive for hours and be in a place where I have to put on a bra to go to breakfast nor decide what to do for fun, no matter how much I may regret it, especially thinking of this giant full moon which I'll miss seeing over the Atlantic ocean.
I will have to make do with watching it rise over the pecan trees and I will be fine with that.
Today is the Summer Solstice.
My phlox have just started blooming.
My husband just left and I cried and told him in every way I know how to come home safely.
I am going to stop crying. I am going to go to town and run errands with Lily and my grandsons. I am going to come home and I am going to spend the weekend watching the phlox unfurl, the birds as they feed and fly, the heavy bellied moon rise.
I am staying home and unpacking my suitcase and it is time.