Life in a box??

Could fit your life in a box?  If someone politely knocked on your door and asked that you fit everything in a box?  How would you respond?  Would you declare it impossible?    All is quiet in my house, everyone is off playing or working, maybe a little of both.  I start moving books, arranging things, and tossing out that which no longer has a purpose.  I find my self standing in the middle of my living room, spinning in circles.  Where do I put it all.  Surely we will need ____ fill in the blank.  These days my mind seems as blank as my statements.  Drifting from chore to chore,  always thinking of tomorrows tomorrow.  

How will they adjust to daddy leaving?  How will I?  Can we really do this again?  Is it fair to any of us?  Can I spend my nights worrying?  The music is stopping, the dance is over.  It is time once again to regroup.  Pull my self up by my bootstraps (God, I hate that saying).  Hold on to the days, and weeks we have remaining.  The sense of normalcy that has existed in the cloud of tomorrow.  

I stand in my teenage sons room, knowing it will hit him the hardest.  The packing, moving, saying good bye. How do I teach him to plant roots, nurture them, add a bit of love and watch it grow?  The sudden feeling of pain hits me, like a bullet no one ever sees.  For just a moment I sit on the edge of his bed, and pray that this is our road.  I pray that this distance that seems to exists will close.  Like a marathon runner, grabbing for water.  I keep moving, always moving, spinning in circles.  

The phone rings.  "Hello".  Oh, hi. How are you?"  Always about you.  Whoever you are.  I don't seem to be able to remember the conversation, though I do try.  It drifts by like the scent of last nights rain.  Maybe if I stand real still and shut my eyes, concentrate I can find it.  

Back to spinning, my head hurts, or maybe it's my heart.  Make a cup of coffee, sit down, open the box.  My box.  What a pretty green piece of paper.  As  I begin to read.  Peyton Gage...  Born in Honolulu Hawaii.  My mind drifts back to that one special day.  That perfect moment.  Holding him, crying, casting a line to hold onto this memory.  I can almost smell the flowers that are in constant bloom around me.  I remember first days of school, watching the surfers on the North Shore.  And, how Christopher declared himself the next professional surfer.  Watching the dancers perform dances of their history.  Movements in time taught to them by their mothers, and their mothers mothers.  Always close to those who connect them.  Like the stitching of a soft, to often washed quilt.  Each square representing someone to hold onto.  For a fleeting second I want to scream. Where is my quilt?  My soft stitching to hold onto?

I am snapped back to reality by the phone ringing.  "Hello,  yes thank you for calling me back.  Yes, I need to reserve a room for July 6.  Yes, we are PCS'ing in.  Thank You, yes, 45 days should be plenty of time to find a house.  You have a good day.  Thank You again".  

Spinning again, 45 days, no way.  How will we manage that.  The slow ache hits again.  In that moment I remember again, he will once again be gone.  Flown off to some far away place.   A green bag his only existence.  A few wrinkled photographs to remind him we are here. How does he separate the then from now?  Does he shut his eyes, cast his own fragile line and try and hold on?  The constant movement, shifting of the sand, erodes away the safe.  

I move back to my box, moving, sorting, touching the past.  A beautiful Christmas ornament, made by tiny hands.  Careful not to use to much glue. His smile of  missing teeth, a crooked bottom lip.  I rub my thumb across the photo card, taking care not to tear it.  Some day I will need the evidence that we were all here.  Existing in the in between spaces.   What year was this taken?  Shit, I can't remember.  Flip it over, there should be a date.  My hands begin to shake, I can't find the date.  Think.  How old was he 5.  Ok, that would be 2004.  I remember, we lived on Iriquoius.  Spent our days at the beach, watching the jets take off.  Building castles, reading stories, making plans.  Always making plans.  

Reaching into my box, I realize this is my quilt, my stitching.  This tiny plastic container holds my dance, my music, my roots.   I close my eyes once again, take a deep breath and close my box.   The spinning stops.   I grab my coffee it has gone as cold as the floor beneth my feet.  No mater, I can make more.  As I stand up I hear the key in the lock.  One more deep breath, and I smile.  Here they come.  My oldest is first through the door. "hey, mom, can I go to John's"?  Peyton follows behind, his little legs always fighting to catch up "mommy, I go to the park with Noah".  There behind the noise and clatter he stand.  That crooked lip grin he passed onto our son.  I reach out, take his hand, and cast a line...