I think I got burned. My lips have a jalapeño-seed-licked burn to them, and my face a thermostat turned up too high feel. I blame the cloudless day. But the brand-new SPF 50 I slathered on thick begs to differ. Maybe it was the wind. That silent-but-deadly blowing—on me while running, on me during an evening walk—the prairie-like hills, oaks stripped bare, funneling it straight through.
I need backup. The thick Vaseline balm of Aquaphor should calm what’s far too irritated.
Not seven minutes into the bath and I’m getting squirrely. The initial downshift has come and gone, leaving me coasting. A tad bored. A tad too burny right at the line where my lip meets the corner of my mouth. Staying still feels like picking a scab without stopping.
I wonder where writing got hard. Where it changed. And if there’s anything to be done about it. I know that’s vague. I know it might not be true. I know I could be spinning a web only to catch myself in it.
And what a place that is—to be both predator and prey. To call out injustice while your forehead’s pressed to the baseball bat handle, spinning in circles at a birthday party game. My brain can’t compute it, so I start again.
I am against missing people, things, moments. Adamantly. It’s oddly as strong a stance as people have about abortion or assisted suicide.
It came on full force once Evelyn was born. The hyperfocus on this tiny piece of Dave and me that shifted where my earth revolved. And then there’s everyone—every parent ever—saying don’t blink, it goes by fast. I sense their loss. The knot is there, deep in my chest, and I don’t want to slow down enough to feel it.
Or rather, I don’t want to stay with it for too long. Like at a gravesite. Or in a state of reflection. There’s a beat you take with the overwhelming love and gratitude, and also its loss and letting go. It hurts in the most vulnerable way I’ve ever known, and sometimes I wish I didn’t have it. I wish I could cut this part of me out like a glob of Silly Putty and throw it against the wall.
Get outta heeya , I’d say, in a New York accent. But I can’t. So I won’t. And instead, I scooch over on the couch to let it in, to let it sit and tell me its fears and tears. And I say, “I know.” I get it.
Love, Jacynn
Going On 40 