Everything gets smaller in the fall. The days, the light, my energy. Possibility. The air cools and it sticks, leaving residue, damp spots and afterthoughts. It’s not just dew.
On Saturday E spotted movement in the upper corner of the sliding glass door. A fat caterpillar was stuck in a spider web. I rescued it with a maple leaf as the kids gathered around me on the porch; I used the stem of a second leaf to loosen its gossamer bindings while my littles waited, hands outstretched. Without intending, I’d silenced the house. All the kids now wanted to play outside. The husband and I looked at each other and drank our coffee.
Today was the first day of the new aftercare for E following the sudden closure of the one we enrolled her in at the beginning of the school year. My girl, she did this without me. I wasn’t there. We talked about it beforehand and I picked her up after but she negotiated the new halls, changed clothes for the activity and found her way back when it was done, she did a new thing that scared the dickens out of her, as all new things do. And she did it without me. There is a melodic poetry in being unneeded.
Sometimes I think of my function as my own planned evaporation.