That Perfect Story

I'm thinking a lot about R right now. I'm remembering that he isn't beside me when I wake up. I'm remembering that it's only six months until he returns. His arrival gets closer.

Mom was here last week. There were good times. She decorated my apartment. She said, "It's too plain." She said, "I needed to add personal touches." So now I have a gold table cloth and decorative napkins that aren't for use only for looks. I have plastic fruit in a red bowl. I have fake green plants in the bathrooms. Everything I haven't gotten around to is done for me. She did it for me. The night before Thanksgiving I come home to small personal touches. At first I thought, "This isn't what I picked out." But it made Thanksgiving festive. I can bring the stuff out on the holidays. Later I can pick out everyday things to decorate my home. For now, it'll do.

When Mom left, the atmosphere changed. I am reminded of the emptiness all over again. I'm used to it. I've found a routine. Not a good one, but a routine. I get up just to allow myself enough time to get ready in the morning, go to work, come home, eat, work on the computer (mainly writing), then sleep. It starts all over again the next day.

What throws me off are the weekends. No distractions. No obligations. I know, I need to take the initiative to plan things and to meet new people. A lot of the times I want to wrap myself in my light blue bedspread and curl up on the couch and read a book or work on my laptop and create that perfect story.

A perfect story?

Well, sitting on the couch and living in my head isn't creating my story.

There was a trip Mom and I took last week. We went to a small island nearby and walked the old streets of a small beach town. I went into shops. I found two bookstores. The first was an expensive bookstore which carried first editions and autographed books. I feel in love with it. Two blocks down was another one. This bookstore was more relaxed and welcoming. I went inside and came across two local authors promoting their books.

I found myself browsing the children's section looking for books for my classroom. I went to the register to purchased my items and the cashier was a sweet lady with and Irish accent. We chatted. She shared a piece of her life with me and some history of the place. I shared a piece of my life with her as well.

Experiences like this help me find my perfect story. Most of all, those I love helps me thrive.

A Dying Art

I read my mom's letter on blue stationary this evening. She started off by calling me "Sweetie." Then it went on to talk about my grandmother and how she used to call her and her sister "Sweetie" at the end of each phone call. Tears released after reading about her. It's been years since her passing, but still it takes the simplest of memories to remind me of Grandma and set me into a whirlwind of weeping.

The smell of coffee makes me think of the time she had made coffee for the family. That one memory leads to an onslaught of a dozen more memories.

It's a good cry, though. I miss my family. I miss my husband. Being thousands of miles away from them hurts, but I get to read their letters, hear their voices on the phone, or chat with them via internet.

I find letters comforting. Reading the words written by hand is almost like talking to the sender in person. A piece of them goes into the letter. It's personal, unlike the internet. Yet, I don't write letters as much as I should. Like I've heard before, "Letter writing is a dying art." It's about time I pick up a pen and write a few letters using the stationary that sits on my shelf collecting dust.

Deployment

With my husband on deployment, it gets a little rough coming home to and empty place.

I prepared myself a few weeks before he left to see what it would be like on my own. When he left for work and leaned over the bed to kiss me goodbye I paid attention to the feeling I got when I he went out the door: the locking of the door; the sounds of his footsteps as he walked to the car; the starting of the engine. All were profound.

Then I focused in on that sunken feeling. It was slight, but enough to know what it would be like when he was away.

When I couldn't hear the sound of the car anymore, the room seemed to get darker, quieter. Our home was different. An occupant of two now enclosed one person. Our home isn't used to that. I'm not used to that.

I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

I countdown the days he's gone and anticipate his return. That's a given. I want him home, but at the same time I'm happy for him--for us.

We both are now employed and it feels wonderful to have a job that I really like. I'm not the unemployed wife anymore. I'm a wife and a preschool teacher. I can contribute to something instead of feel useless. If it wasn't for the preschool it would have been difficult to force myself out of bed and out the door.

Still, I wake up to a pillow on the left side of the bed instead of my husband. It won't be long until he is back again for me to reach out to and hold.

The Right Thing

Yes, it has been a while since I've written something. My dad brought it to my attention. I was really touched to hear that he missed reading my stories. So, here I am. Back on track.

After several interviews and applications I felt like I was at a standstill. I lost confidence... motivation. But I had to drive myself forward no matter what. If I let those losses overcome me I would have buried myself too deep that it would be all the more difficult to dig myself out.

Then my mom's words ran though my mind, "The right thing will come at the right time."

Over and over she told me this. Over and over I grew tired of it. It played in my head like one of those scratched up records on a turntable that had been overplayed. But, she was right.

Two months ago, I had an interview at a preschool. I took a tour of the school, met some of the students, and went through the painful interview. (OK, it's wasn't that painful.) I was nervous as can be and most likely showed during the interview. Afterwards I was able to observe one of the classrooms. I felt a sense of belonging.

A week passed...

Then a few more days...

I was so nervous I was about to peel like a steaming kettle. So, I contacted the preschool to express my interest and within hours I got a response. I was in the top three being considered for the position!

A few days passed...

Then a week...

And the wait went on...

My heart was set on getting the job. My deep feeling of certainty was omnipresent, rooted to the core. But as the wait continued I started to doubt. My certainty vanished. I was back on the computer searching for jobs and going into shops and asking if they were hiring for the holiday season. "Come back next month," was the most common response I got.

"The right thing will come at the right time," I heard my mom's voice in my head.

"Yes, Mom. I know!" I argued with the voice in my head.

She had said it to me so much I was beginning to tell myself that. I got tired of think of those words over and over. But, she was right.

(Don't you hate it when mothers are ALWAYS right?)

I waited a little over a month. And then I received a short email from the preschool. "There is an opening. Can you start Monday?"

It's not hard to guess what my answer was.