Escape to Me
The 9-month-old is cranky. The 2-year-old is upset that he can’t fit his puzzle pieces together. The work queue is piling up. There’s a stain on the floor and I’m not sure how old it is. I forgot to thaw something this morning so I could make dinner tonight. Why does my shirt smell so funny? Did I just miss my son’s flu shot appointment? I think I missed that writing deadline.
Breathe.
Tomorrow will be different. Nay, 5:30PM will be different. Dinner will be calm. There will be a bath, a story, lights out. The house will fall quiet.
Breathe.
Think of stillness. Placid. An escape. A vacation. If I could go anywhere, where would it be?
Would I go across the pond to a different country? A small town in Italy, perhaps a hideaway in the countryside of Scotland. Maybe a coast somewhere, where the ocean is at the tips of my toes. Sea shells at the ready for collecting, the salt air tickling my nose. Maybe somewhere cold, a place where I can wrap myself in a thick sweater and drink real cocoa, prepared warm and perfect.
No.
My ideal vacation isn’t a place I can physically visit. I would escape to find myself in my own head. I want to visit the place where magic happened, where words were written. Poetry composed itself.
I would vacation to the parts of my mind that held onto dreams, where bitterness didn’t exist, where postpartum depression wasn’t in the equation. That spot in my head that wasn’t afraid, that set goals and met them. The space in my crown where negative was canceled by positive.
I want to go where stories still exist, where make-believe isn’t fantasy, where “I can†and I will†and “I did†are the only affirmations ever uttered.
It exists somewhere in there, probably below the piles of “I’m too busy†and “I do too much†and “I am not enough.â€
The core of me, now branched into many different people. Mother. Wife. Writer. Homemaker.
Me.
I would venture on a journey to find me again, introduce her to myself and make her part of my life again.
I can. I will.
I shall.
Author: Michelle