It's a grey, humid and wet day in Mankato. The air is thick, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. The smell of worms encases your nostrils and your instincts insist that you remain indoors for your own safety.
Garrett is gone for the day, with work and meetings- leaving Eva and I to do as we wish. Occasionally a bird will sing a song and we'll both longingly look out the window, searching for the sun, hoping that a trip to the park will become a reality. But, we both know the disappointing truth- the walls of our apartment will surround us throughout the day. Maybe we'll take a trip to the coffee shop for a chocolate milk and an iced dirty chai. Yes, maybe.
The quiet, melancholy tone of the day, so new yet already set in motion, seems appropriate. Today is May 23.
Both of my parents- my deceased father and my estranged mother, share this date as their day of birth. She is now 48 years old, he would have been 54. Neither are in my life. Yet, I will think of them both on this day, as I spend it in silences and love with my own children. One, with her hand in mine, facing the somber, rainy day at my side. The other, snuggled safely in my womb, nudging and stretching- reminding me that he's alive and well.
Eva and I will paint and, cuddle. We will watch the rain and play make believe.
And, the two people who created me, yet did not raise me, will be anchored in the back of my mind throughout the day. Because, even in their absence, the lack of them has still shaped a part of who I am.