Con-man loves a free cocktail.
A few years ago they moved out of Brooklyn to the quiet boonies of New England. Born and raised city dwellers this adventure had those who watched chewing on cigars and throwing down crumpled dollar bills betting on who would win this one. Mother Nature or The Big Smoke, with most going all in on the latter.
Dudes should have bet on Mama!
The vast stillness welcomed them and she breathed. Hello, she said shaking hands with herself, have we met before, you look familiar. For most of her life she had masqueraded as a glamorous extrovert, loving the hustle and embracing the grind of loud ambition. Moving to the country was a deep discovery into less being her more, the relief in the silence nudging memories of the deep breaths she use to take before entering any room, the small talk, insides churning, face radiant with smiles. Always she hurried to find the bar, what else calms a con-man's nerves faster than a free cocktail? The energy expended was exhausting. Oh how she loved a bathroom, the sudden silence of it being the sweetest slice of pie at any dinner party. Couldn’t she just stay in there? Pretty please.
It was fun, of course it was. She met some of her closest friends during this time of self-discovery, dancing and mountain climbing. They were wild brilliant memories of a youth well served to the demands of her dreams leaving her free to now enjoy the kaleidoscope of her quieter present.
Recently, though, the shadows of her past have been in contact again. Work was taking her around the country and into the homes of young twenty-somethings, all of them near the beginning of their own adult journey. Walking into these homes she recognized the clutter of youth, the shared small apt spaces and the emptiness of dependents, of family. It was here that a wave of panic so strong it threatened her breathing, overwhelms her. She imagines life like that again and anxiety crawls over her, a feeling of remembered loneliness, long pushed down under parties, lust and busyness rising up in a silent scream. Getting married, having babies and moving to the country while not necessarily completing her had wrapped her in a cozy blanket of unconditional love and companionship, warts and all, putting the hairs on the back of her neck out of a job. These trips into the young people’s lives was like hearing the scraping of claws down a far-off chalkboard, the monster letting her know it was still there, waiting in the afternoons that stretched on with no kids stomping into the house, no mayhem and mess, no little alley cats wrestling for her attention, just pure painful independence.
Every year when the girls start school again after the long summer vacation, she and her husband have this tradition of going paddle boarding after they drop them off. The mornings are gloomy, the girls are bummed they have to go back to the daily grind of school while she and her husband are weighed down with the understanding and sadness that their girls have moved another year further from young childhood and are a step closer to them leaving home. It’s heavy. But the back of the pickup truck has paddle boards sticking out of it and there is a picnic between her bare feet. A faint smell of sunscreen lingers in the car, warmth floats off their tanned summer. Adventure waits patiently for mourning to cross the street.