Today I woke up to my alarm that, if set just right, is loud enough to be heard through ear plugs but not so loud that it jars everyone awake. It's a fine balance and this morning I was somewhat dragged awake but only for a second. I brushed my teeth and woke up the boy, who likes to lay still, eyes closed, and then say in a totally awake voice, "I'm awake" which is equal parts funny and creepy. I then kiss on him for a good 30 seconds, before shouting at him 20 times to get going, as is routine.
It was frosty today so I had to scrape the car. We don't park in the garage because Sean has a big table/counter top thing he's been working on for a solid year but that we're in no rush for because frankly, having a garage feels like an extra room. We have the driveway for cars, guaranteed parking, and though I did have to scrape the car windows, I'll never have to dig it out of snow. I'll never have to walk half a mile with my haul. Our experiences bring a certain kind of luxury and I think about this often.
After breakfast I hugged him extra hard and dropped him off at school which, turns out, he loves, in spite of himself. I've been thinking a lot about The Old Life lately, as I do from time to time, and time again. I always feel connected, not just because I left a part of my heart
there and there it will ever be, but because people I love still live
there and tie me to it. I catch glimpses now and then and feel the
ever-present tug, sometimes stronger than othertimes. My friend just got married on the boardwalk there and had a friend of hers play and sing the song I and You and Love which really should be called, Brooklyn, Take Me In. I've been hesitant to attach myself to this song because I know so many others who have and I thought, well sure it's a given, but do I really want to sign my name to a club set up as a revolving door for love and pain? I, one of millions, billions or trillions over time. Would it feel generic and cliche and wholly unoriginal? The answer is yes, and also, yes.
I went to a chocolate tasting party the other night with some gal pals. It was awesome and I learned a thing or two about how to properly taste chocolate, something every human should know. The woman instructing us was giving us background on the chocolates we sampled and she mentioned that companies of several of the bars we tasted were based in Brooklyn, and, listening intently, I did nothing. Often when someone mentions a place we used to live, we react instantly, having staked a bit of claim on it, and make a declaration of some kind to let people know. Though I could do this, and would do this, often I do not because I think I forget. I forget that Brooklyn was ever mine in the dreamlike sense that i can't really believe i lived there for eleven years and question the fact daily. Also because I know I can't really claim it and have resigned myself, that deep down, with most people I interact with, the very real love that i have just does not, will not translate. And I shift gears in my head a bit and I view the place just like someone who had never lived there might, who maybe only knew of it from TV shows and movies, a vague distant-sounding place that could be interesting, sounds exciting, who knows?
But the piece of my heart still beats, probably stuck in the weeds in some forgotten corner of Prospect Park, or hovering near the rocky shoreline of the pier by the bridge. And on days such as this, I drive back from the school and put on the song, and as it plays, so do the strings of my heart, and I cry the very best kind.