white-paw-love among the ruins
A hot August has rendered me less inclined to read or think or write anything interesting. And not much seems worth photographing either. We’re moving on September 1 and the packing days remaining are sliding by. A heat advisory warning keeps repeating itself from the radio, agitating the nation, our apartment, and the internal furnace of my abdomen. Today we took a tour of St Joseph’s maternity ward to prepare for the delivery day and going from room to room, listening to the nurse explain how it all worked, shuffling through the halls with a dozen other pregnant women and their spouses, seeing the callico curtains, the birthing balls, the hospital cafeteria menu next to the bed, made me feel content and grateful to be exactly where I am at the present moment, rocking for the time being in the plain bosom of Indiana, married to Jeff, the student, carrying the baby of yet unknowable gender, and owner of Effie, the cat.
The summer weeks have gone by fast and slow at the same time and, as usual, the little judge living inside of me has officially demoted summer to the least of seasons, a season to speed through, despite someone’s admittedly wise warning that I should not wish my life away. I am a lifelong waiter-for-fall. I wait for the break in the atmosphere that will bring the blessed cold air down from Canada, and the (in my imaginary geography) legend-like forests of the farthest and purest parts of North America. If it would listen to me, I would call out to the air up there to sweep down upon us here.
This fall will coincide with the added everything of a new baby, and the subtraction of an uncomfortable mid-section, so the temptation to wish my August life away is stronger than normal. For now, while drawing arrows on boxes and writing out the word FRAGILE with a sharpie, and frequenting the freezer for pieces of ice to chew on, it’s helpful to find the occassional white paws tucked away among the ruins of the apartment we will soon and gladly be abandoning.