deep dish (I)

I look around and I feel grateful for this life that I’ve created. Well, most of the time. There is something special about aging, don’t let anyone tell you different: watching your house turn into a home, yourself turn into a woman and then your baby turning into a man. I fill my car up with everything I know and I put it all into one place. The decoration on the wall… it’s just My taste. My record collection is growing. Sometimes I let the dust collect because I enjoy seeing how clean I can make them again. I fill my office with books. I let the light peak into the windows. I choose which pillows I want on my couch and where they go. I love being a mother and I love not being alone. My son is the smartest and most sensitive person I know. My home is full of books, plants and him. Of course, a part of me was happy that he has a new woman in his life, but there was a gnawing feeling that kept telling me he was on the way out of here, out of what we had spent our lives creating. He had been gone long before he’d actually moved out of our house and in with his girlfriend. Things are changing so quickly. His room, closest to the front door, became an empty box filled with just memories and echoes. This hallway becomes a meeting point of all my sorrows. Things weren’t always easeful, but that’s just our life. Someone screams. Someone cries. Sometimes truth, sometimes lies. No one could tell us how we should be. I begin to pick myself up off the floor again. I don’t let anyone see how acquainted I had become with it. It can feel comforting to know that you can’t sink into something any lower... Though, I do live on the second floor of this complex.