In the Little White House

Long ago, we had a white marlin house hanging from a post on our deck. When Lily had trouble sleeping, I would ask her to pretend that we were there, together, in that little white house, swinging in the wind but protected from the rain. Lined with grass and fuzz.

I created the story for her, but that narrative has soothed me, through the pandemic, through learning to separate in her first year of college, through the passing of my elders.

Through realizing I am in my fall and my parents are in the beautiful fluffy snow of their early winter, when everything is still soft and Christmas and hymns. Before it gets really hard.

This spring I went home to see my cousin-in-law and her daughter. A baby three months old when her daddy died of pancreatic cancer, something I still can’t really believe. He was the most alive of all of us, until he wasn’t. I loved his energy so much. I loved him, and I’m not sure I told him.

That’s a loss.

It is pretty easy to pretend we aren’t all terminal until your mom points out she’ll put up with piles out of thanks your dad is still alive, and you realize that’s fair.

He’s wearing his little brother’s jackets.

I think I’m going through a moment where I’m really aware of our time here. It’s short. It is maybe or maybe not important — I think that’s up to us.

I wish I could be a better writer, to adequately capture an early summer night with fire at your feet and the perfect playlist and a mindset to appreciate what you have been given in life before everyone else comes home and wants to watch TV.

May you have these nights when you realize.