dear diary
Because I am still trying to distinguish all the ways snowfall makes noise. How you can only do that in silence. And, of course, you have to be in the snow. Or imagine yourself being in the snow where dark and light are just two of many defining contrasts. The girls roll down the window and collect snowflakes on their palms until they disappear into their skin. I can only hear laughter.
Because yesterday I sat in the presence of a seventy-five year old man who wept at the memory of his lost German Shepherd when he was just a twelve-year-old boy riding around on a bike. I was sure he was also weeping for his wife who died two years ago, his daughter who died last year, and for his ten-year-old granddaughter of whom he’s the sole guardian now. When I brought up puberty to him, I saw what can only be described as twelve-year-old eyes looking back at me, widening, full of tears.
Because I did not marry cancer and yet.
Because I chose to attend my training instead of going to Rafi’s assembly, and making that choice was so hard. Afterwards, when I received videos of her class performance of Ooh Child, I questioned my motherhood so harshly that I'm not sure how I got back up off the floor. Over twenty-four hours later, I am still half-crying.
Because I live my life under an intricate system of layers, it’s often hard for me to reach the one at the bottom holding the rest of them in place. I’m not sure if it would be like reaching the core of the earth.
Because my niece gave me a painting she made in pre-school with broad strokes of fire-colored paint after we saw a volcano erupt. Before cancer. In between kidney damage and what was initially diagnosed as a torn meniscus, and then determined to be an old patella, the painting looks back at me from the wall directly in front of me right now.
Because Substack appears to be the Etsy for intangible wares.
Because I have fun-house mirror eyes, I bought a scale for the first time in my life and keep it hidden in my closet.
Because the world is burning and also turning and I am always afraid I am doing something unintentionally to fuck my kids up.
Because last year I chaperoned all but one of Luna’s field trips, and there were many. However, I will not be chaperoning the one this week, and for this, I wish I could break myself in two. But then again, it’s a little late for that.
Because my big emotions make me ineffective and overwhelming during conflict, it’s almost as if I become the volcano. I felt this, along with collective suffering and ancient grief, when I saw lava spilling onto land. It wasn’t the same as when I gave birth to Rafi via emergency c-section, but I did feel a sense of emptying from the innermost core of my body.
Because miracles happen all the time, but they also don’t. It depends on the light.
Because there is a vibration on the playground in the morning before school starts and how I have a steady stream of tears trapped in my torso, and this just seems to be who I am now. A dam or a woman. A mother. A caretaker. A friend. Even a daughter. Oh, how I am a daughter.
Because they still hold hands in the backseat even when they look out of their respective windows.
Because the tree in our backyard is already in full bloom, which means that any minute, a breeze will return it to bare.
Because trauma does things to memory, I’m glad I’ve been taking notes.
Because even without social media for over five years, I can still imagine the noise—like a phantom limb—and even without the news on, I hear the suffering. The injustices are insidious, huge, and elemental like wind.
Because I am at once my age, the age of my mother when she was my age, and also I am Rafi’s age. Who said time travel doesn’t exist? It’s all I do.