Sunday, October 12, 2025

Seen and not heard

 It’s been a month and ten years since I’ve set eyes on my son.

I’m not counting that single, solitary post on social media – a wobbly picture of him and some friends in the purple light of an all-ages night spot, which, after a few seconds of video vibing, freezes on the top-most section of his unruly curls.
Or at least I assume they are his. I can’t be entirely sure.
But, I had to admit, the sighting set my mind at ease.
Not only had I missed sneaking all the delicious desserts and snacks I stopped buying *FOR THE KIDS* once they left, but I missed his face and his voice and his quiet, midnight raids of the refrigerator.
The people wearing branded college gear at the orientation advised us to make a plan. Agree upon how often we would communicate … and what form it would take. Would it be a weekly phone call? Semi-weekly? A few text messages strategically sent during schedule breaks when we are sure our students aren’t sleeping, or eating, or finally able to get a shower in the tiny bathroom they share with as many as 10 other students.
I had hoped for a once-a-week call at a time of his choosing. Pictured sitting around the phone broadcasting to the kitchen as he recounts all his new experiences with boundless enthusiasm, even if I knew the kid we sent off to school would rather just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and shrug into the microphone.
He isn’t his sister, who will take whatever question I ask and weave it into a story she’s more willing to tell me. She seems to know innately that HOW she says things to her parents often matters more than what she tells us.
Not that I blame him.
Of course, I would settle for one-line replies to texts. And he would oblige four to six follow-up thought bubbles before he would just leave it on read.
Though we want to know they are happy and thriving, making friends and feeling their formerly small worlds slowly crack open into a panoply of prismatic color, asking for that reassurance directly can be … well …  infuriating.
No one is perfect.
I wonder how I forget such things when I STILL experience this feeling of exasperation at the prospect of answering well-meant, ice-breaking questions like: “How was your day?” or “Did you win your 5K race?”
It can also feel like the pain of a thousand jabs if things aren’t going as expected.
Lately, I can understand the impulse to scream at the top of our lungs STOP ASKING ME HOW WAS MY DAY. That’s my business. Mine. I’m not even sharing a taste for you to chew on.”
If I can manage to stave off impulse long enough to take a deep breath, maybe I could gather wits and recall, in intricate detail, the story of how I really, really wanted nothing more than to buy a devil’s food sheetcake, the kind with the vanilla frosting loops in one straight line along the center, and eat the whole dang thing.

Sunday, October 05, 2025

Once around The Block

With our kids out from under our roof, and only the lowest-maintenance cats on the prowl with its walls, my husband thinks NOW is the perfect time to be together … somewhere else.


Somewhere, our worries will have to jog to keep up with us.

I felt it was my duty to support his cause, even as I worked all diplomatic channels to ensure we weren’t spending days in transit or dipping into non-discretionary funds.

We had been lucky thus far. Forecasts had called for a washout, and we had yet to feel even a drop.

This is the third “vacation” we’ve taken this year, and I am trying all the things I can think of to keep superstition and the fates at bay.

All of it felt .. performative.

Luck, in my mind, anyway, is always a coin toss.

I was trying to breathe in deeply and exhale with a matching force. In a few minutes, I would go for a run; the distance wouldn’t be far. Just a little more than a mile to a place that friends had recommended would serve up THE BEST DONUTS on the Island. Then we would visit the farmer’s market, hike to the Coast Guard Beach, and experience a mudslide (the cocktail, not the calamity),

My husband had a list. After visiting Payne’s “Killer” Donuts - which were perhaps the best donuts of all time - he wanted to try out the 25th Best Fudge in all of America at Blocks of Fudge before dinner.

There was also the matter of renting bikes and visiting at least one of the four Lighthouses before nightfall.

I wanted to be done with everything and be back in time to make the 8 o’clock showing of whatever the Empire Theater was screening, so I could pet the dog who lounged around the ticket booth, loosely tethered to the ticket booth with a sandbag, while the owner shot back and forth from the concessions counter.

By the look of them, I’d never have imagined the 133-year-old seating would be comfortable until I slid into mine, and the cushioned seat part gently glided forward.

As the lights went down and the projector started to roll, I felt like I could just sit there forever basking in the glow of … whatever dystopic adventure (that could become reality sometime soon) was playing.

The thought occurred to me that I might even be able to relax here.

The sun rose over the marina, just east of where I could see from the window of our hotel room.

Its light wrapped around, bathing my view in a gentle wash of pink, just enough to make me worry about what the weather would bring.

I’m happily surprised that instead of a storm, the pretty skies brought out a local man into our new favorite coffee shop. He wanted to show off how pretty his chickens’ eggs were. We could all use some more kind words.


I was glad we came to this island, a place neither of us had ever been during our combined century of family trips to New England. It is so beautiful. The landscape sprawls out, inviting us to leave our car behind and walk and bike farther than our eyes can see. Where we zoom past historic houses zhuzhed up with just a few new cedar shakes and a fresh coat of paint.

Time isn’t exactly still here, but it just feels more steady.