There's a lot to say. I'm not sure where to start, but time moves so fast that if I don't start consciously trying to remember certain things I know I won't. I don't remember much of the past six years. Claire as a baby seems so distant that when I see pictures I hardly believe it's her, even though I was there for all of it. She has always been a two year old. An eternal two year old.
On a walk the other day she said, "It's too high!" When I said, "What's too high?" She said, "The sky is too high." I think about that sometimes now, how far away the sky is. How this world we walk and move and rest in is just turning slowly, all of these houses slowly rotating, blurring into whites and pinks and blues all lit by the same sun until the thought makes me dizzy.
I'm working on a couple books and querying a couple books. It worries me that I don't have as much faith in my projects as I used to. I love starting them, love the plotting, love the characters who begin to do things as I breathe life in them hour by hour. But then their story is done for me and I just sort of shrug and halfheartedly send them out to agents. I wish I had more fire for the publishing part, but I don't. I like the writing part. I like the living in the story part. I'm afraid that all of these characters will never be known by anyone but me. I'm afraid of getting lost inside the stories when the outside feels like too much. I'm afraid that if I'm not careful I'll get swallowed by this love I have for something that doesn't seem to love me back.
Kevin works long hours. 12, 13, sometimes 15 hour days for weeks at a time before a day off. I feel so sorry for him in the early mornings when he carefully wakes up. I hear him in the shower, rummaging in the kitchen, locking the door, before returning back to my sleep. The other day one of his patients told a social worker he didn't have the bus fare to get home. He asked if he could stay in the hospital a few more days. Kevin gave the social worker money for him and asked her to tell him it was from a special hospital fund. It was one of a dozen things he told me about his day, really an afterthought. He asks for nothing but gives so much. He's good to the bone.
Lately he's been telling me stories about his mom. She used to tell him when he complained about being hungry that he, "could have all the apples he wanted." She would sing to their parrot. She's still in her coma-like state. It's so heartbreaking we try not to talk about it but it's been almost three years. We visited her at Christmas and sang songs and held her hand. She doesn't know he was there, so I try to love him the way I would want someone to love my child. I'm not the best at it. I try.
Claire hugged me the other day and said, "I so much you." And I knew just what she meant. We move away from home and marry strangers who become family. Before we know it, we have this whole life and it's so much.