Someone, he thought, is still in this house.
B is beside me in the bed, reading. “What does that say?” he asks, pointing to a word.
“Ancient,” I answer. “It means very old.”
“Oh, I know,” he says.
Readers, we are in the final stretch of the school year and I feel like we’ve finally hit our stride. We ate dinner at the table tonight, all of us overlapping for about four whole minutes. Everyone is reading at night now that they no longer have to record it in a reading journal (and now that Luca discovered graphic novels). I finally found a lunch B will actually eat when I pack it for him: hot dogs. Sure, they’re cold by lunchtime. He doesn’t seem to care.
And in one and a half more days, it’s all for nought. We’ll slip into the pattern of summer, fraught with its own series of speed tables. We’ll forget how to bathe (well, some of us will forget). We’ll be late for karate class every single time. We’ll eat way too many potato chips and popsicles. And in September, school will feel like a relief. For about a week. Then it will be hard again.
I don’t mean to be one of those people who are never satisfied with their lives, but jeez.
Nothing to do but muddle through and perfect the motions in our control. Nothing to do but watch movies late into the night, read novels at the breakfast table, forgive each other for forgetting to switch the wet laundry, and remember that summers are brief. (Even though in my head the year is an oval and July and August take up the same amount of space as October, November, December, January, March, and April put together.)
Also, I miss our dog. B took this one. I miss him.