Mornings
The sunlight streams in the bay windows that face south,
a wide horizon of sky above, even visible on this city street in the middle of Chicago.
Jake stands in silence in front of the big window, nose almost to the glass, pajamas still on, hot coffee in hand, observing the first signs of the day, watching the neighborhood slowly waking up.
As the sunlight pours in, I remember the days I sat postpartum on the floor, soaking up the sun as the temperatures dipped below freezing outdoors, comforted by the heat on my face as the tears streamed down my cheeks. Tears of relief, of joy, of being overwhelmed by, all the things.
I sat here holding that baby on my knees, and staring
in amazement, wonder, disbelief, admiration, love, fear, and awe.
Baby 1, Baby 2, and then Baby 3.
I arranged the blankets and pillows to take their first pictures.
I let them roll on the floor and get in their tummy time.
I napped with them on my chest on the couch, on the chair, on the floor.
Mornings,
In this living room,
a time for hope and new beginnings.
Except that one morning,
a cold, dark day in January,
when I sat here as Jake told me about Daniel, the 17-year-old son of my beloved cousin.
And the tears returned, hot and fierce and full of force,
And this time the sun couldn’t comfort me enough.
Midday
It’s quiet.
It’s waiting.
The light is now speckled as it floats through the window, the leaves of the river birch we planted in front has grown.
The chimes, a gift from my dear Anne on our wedding day, twinkle and sing in the wind, filling the quiet space of the living room.
Afternoons and Evenings
The sun is beginning to fade as it passes behind the apartment building next door.
The fresh green paint on the walls is now a soft, calm tan.
We do puzzles and build towers and forts,
We play Legos and board games,
We watch the lightning fill the sky and snow flurries in the street lights.
We dance. We sing. We yell.
They do their homework and fold their laundry,
They read their books, watch their screens, and open presents,
They lay asleep, shoes and coat still on, exhausted from a morning at school.
Time for dinner.
Night
It’s dark.
It’s quiet.
It’s just me,
alone.
I sit in my corner on the couch, this couch Jake and I bought together,
our first joint purchase,
for our first apartment,
on Oakley Blvd.
It’s held up well over all these years. Except for that damn zipper.
I sit here, in the living room, on the couch, under the lamp light,
and sip my tea.
It’s 2011, I’m reading a book, writing lesson plans, and practicing my headstand and sun salutations.
It’s 2012, I’m studying, writing papers, finishing report cards, and listening to the creak of the stairs as Molly Rose leaves her apartment to go out to the bars and comes back home late at night. And I’m still writing.
It’s 2013, I’m nursing a baby, falling asleep, writing lesson plans, and lying sick with pneumonia.
It’s 2014, I’m nursing a baby, writing lesson plans, and falling asleep.
It’s 2015, I’m in bed.
It’s 2016, I’m nursing a baby, listening to a monitor, and falling asleep.
It’s 2017, I’m in bed.
It’s 2018, I’m reading a book and falling asleep.
It’s 2019, I’m nursing a baby and soon going to bed.
It’s 2020, I’m nursing a baby, on a Zoom call, and writing a lesson plan.
It’s 2021, I’m writing emails, and reading a book.
It’s 2023, I’m writing emails, yelling at children to go to bed, and reading a book.
It’s 2024.
I’m remembering.
Years of living.
In this living room.
tangledtreetops 