Finding gratitude in the solitude

I tugged on the kitchen garbage bag and accidentally pulled the plastic strings through the top. As I tried to release the over-stuffed bag from the can, my toes dug into my cozy wool socks. “Come on, buddy,” I said while wrestling the bag out of it’s snug container and into a full-body hug. The sun had just set and the plants were radiant in the last bit of light. My little indoor jungle. I felt safe and warm. The garbage, the cat and I stood together by the front door, surrounded by last weeks newspaper and cardboard while I gathered my keys, wallet and jacket.

My clogs clunk-clunked down the wooden stairs. The street was quiet and after plunking down the garbage and recycling, I decided to take advantage of the emptier street and move the car to a closer spot. I clip clopped down the block to see the faithful car parked at the head of the line, just before the bus stop. I heard my daughters voice in my head reminding me to check under the car for stray cats (all clear). I adjust the mirrors and as the car starts, Bach bursts out of the radio. It’s a piece I’ve heard a million times (Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major). I think of my mother and how she would joyously “sing” the notes. I think of my grandmother playing piano, of playing duets with her. I pass our neighborhood farm, which is still and stark, the old cobblestones rumble and bump beneath the weary city car tires. I turn on to my street and pat and hug the steering wheel gratefully. “ Good job,” I say to the mighty fifteen-year-old car. “Thank you, buddy.” I feel safe and warm.

A thick, plastic wrapper crinkles and pops as I drive between two parked yellow school buses. They look like tired behemoths from another land. The streets are completely empty except for a few parked cars. I am greeted by a stop sign, which looks like a friendly, obedient droid. The music continues to play and the whoosh of it all comes over me. Motherhood. Childhood. Parenthood. The handwritten notes and lost teeth you’re so glad you never threw away. The ribbons and rocks and Levi’s and Legos you held on to all these years, through all these moves. I approach my building and there’s a spot right in front. I smile and feel lifted by the magic of Bach on the radio at dusk on a Monday night as I drive around the block in my brothers car. My bright red shirt pops out from under my jacket and I feel suddenly like I’ve driven a hundred miles in only one block. I feel safe and warm. I am home. Loop. Repeat.