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Like falling through a wormhole over and over. This entire summer – a wind, a rushing round, a dizziness, a nausea, and a mass of time has passed. over and over.
Lots of science lately. A book on rare animals, my husband’s piles of National Geographics, articles shared online for a swallow of knowledge, a shot, a gulp, hardly tasted, taken more for the sense that one has read rather than the reading itself.
He is crawling and standing and eating and talking (though we do not know his language) and insisting and so much more a person.
A year ago I had a belly the size of a watermelon and could not see this coming.
I weigh less than I have since I left middle school.
I think I finally got the hang of this whole summer thing-
and my husband goes back to school tomorrow.
I’ve taken to wearing my engagement ring again, even though one of the six tiny sapphires fell out long ago and I kept it in my jewelry box to keep it safe. But now it’s there, sparkling, catching the light, diamonds and sapphires, small and insistent.
I am re-reading Mrs Dalloway and finding that it resonates so strongly with me that I am overwhelmed. No, not exactly in obvious ways, but in quite sufficient ways.
I am realizing that it may be years before I sleep for eight straight hours again.

Time. Traveling in time. Picking out specific moments and linking to them somehow, holding onto their threads. This is what this post is about, isn’t it? Cobbling together certain moments in time to craft today and tomorrow. Because my summer of yesterdays is a haze, a blur, starlight stretched as I travel through space.

My husband and I sat out on the patio last night after the baby fell asleep, and we looked at the sky, watched the dipper sink into our neighbor’s yard. He smoked a cigar. I finished knitting a diaper cover.

I have to write down all of the details before I can make any sense of them.

equations

little boy crawling
+ little boy hardly napping and not going to sleep until 10 pm
+ working three not-quite-part-time jobs
+ camping
+ summer visitors
= no time.

time for me to physically write, sure, but no time for my brain to produce anything. time to dream of knitting and sewing, but I ran out of yarn before I finished toddler mittens and so I’ve started socks in the mean time before I get more. I’ve been reading the same book for weeks now, the kind of book I could have knocked out in 2-3 days before.

I miss having an internal life.