I wasn't sure if I should write it or paint it. The kids have poster paints in the closet, and the black is just the right color for what I need to say. My mind is wandering along with my eyes through the dark spaces of the living room. I have a light on, and turned off my internet browser to set the mood. Elvis sings "Love Me Tender" on my iPhone. Nope, the depression couldn't be any more textbook than it is right now; all the elements for an excellent breakdown. Or breakthrough. As long as I write it, it'll be a breakthrough. I'll have something in text to feel nostalgic about when I've left them and this emotional depth is long gone. Sleeping on the couch tonight because I'm lonely, or anticipating loneliness. Preparing for it all.
I played Ms. Pac Man for 30 minutes right before I got here and my thumb aches from it, exacerbating the emotional pain from this horrific predicament. Tonight, K said, "I wish your new house was in Philadelphia". Tears streamed down his face, and mine. What do I say to that? How can I speak at that moment, and how can I expect to have a happy night in a quiet house after that conversation? Isn't it unhealthy to be this affected? Does everyone else feel this deeply when they leave? To feel it settle into your skin, your eyes, it creates purpose for your body, your soul, reminding you how beautiful your simultaneous existence is, all through this fantastically depressive state of leaving these kids. Music necessary. Sad music.
One more week; seven days, their mother said, "Seven more days of Emily once [her partner] comes." K understood, and tonight he showed me just how he understood. Tears. He looks like his mom when he cries. He wasn't being melodramatic. He was sad. We stared at eachothers eyes, his head in my lap. No words. I asked him if he could find the words to tell me why he was so sad. He shook his head. I told him I couldn't find them either. Sadness, sorrow, mourning, grief: there are no words for what this is, this departure, this farewell. They're not my kids, but they're somewhere between a sibling and a son. Their bodies and souls are connected to mine. I can read them. Eyes, mouth, bodies, voices, cries. Cries. The little one won't cry when I leave. He doesn't know. I know. I know, and he won't. How sad. Two years old. He doesn't have a clue how close he feels to me, I feel to him. So close. Closer than anyone. I kiss his tears, his snotty mouth, drooling lips. Lovely. Really. If I could do that every day, I would. All of that closeness is the most lovely feeling.
I started with the kids when the little one was just a few months old. He was attached to his mother most of the time, and watched the older one, who was 2 at the time, with a neighbor of his from the same block. We would spend a few days together during the week and pick up his friend from daycare in the afternoon. I'd push the half-empty double stroller the half-hour walk to fetch his playmate. We'd talk about city things as we saw them pass by, and he pressed the handicap buttons as we squeezed through the doors into the building. The stroller would sit outside while we walked, hand in hand, into his playmate's classroom. The teachers would say hellos and goodbyes, and both would climb into the stroller for the long walk home. Every day, K would reach back behind his head and stick his tiny hand through the opening in the stroller. We'd hold hands the entire walk home; a silent affirmation that I was, indeed, his.
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