in between times

After the bedtime routine, there is the finding and emptying of Naomi’s cup of milk. This requires some muscle when removing lid; I leverage it against my chest and twist until it comes loose. I separate the rubber part from the rest of it—pour what’s left down the sink. Rinse the sink, if necessary. Rinse cup body and lid, place in sink bin to wash later.

In the mornings I drop her off at daycare, and sometimes it is easy. Other times it is not. No matter which, I have to turn and walk out of the building. I have to work. It is never easy to leave. There is a moment between the daycare building’s door and my vehicle—the sky is still dark; sometimes there is a moon and a toss of stars. Other times there is not. The early morning air feels good. The horizon is starting to blush.

I gently squeeze the extra water from my hair on wash days. I do this with an old cotton t-shirt. When I do this, I tilt my head to one side, then the other. Gather and squeeze. There is a private tenderness to the process. A ritual of mine.

After my daughter outgrows her high chair and my partner assures me its had a good run, I carry it alone to the bulk trash area. The walk feels so long, and I have let go and grieved so many things since becoming a mother. Add this to the list.

Grocery shopping. Music piped through the store, far from the muzak of my youth. I reach for bok choy while Gavin Rossdale grumbles “Don’t let the days go by…” “Glycerine” at the supermarket? The audacity. The age of me. I bag my greens and my eyes well up. Someone go back and tell teenage me that one day a Bush song will leave me teary-eyed while I push my rebellious cart and forget to buy more oatmeal(again).

Folding clothes, there is a sweater turned inside out. I slide my arm in and pull backwards. How many times have I done this?

From my office on the 9th floor, sometimes I look out the window, down at the always-long Starbucks drive-thru line. Who is angry? Who is falling in love? Why do they all wait so long for such shit coffee?

My neighbor holds the door open for me. Every morning he goes outside with a tiny glass cup of tea and a cigarette. The tiny glass of tea and cigarette and neighbor remind me of Zamalek.

I pulse the trigger of the gas pump. Once, two-three. $20.04. When did I get so bad at this?

When I reach for the cinnamon. When I wake up ten minutes before my alarm. When I need to have a good cry and have nowhere private to do it, I get in my car. I find whatever song made the boot print on my heart, and I drive. And I cry.

At the gym, a bead of sweat slides down my nose.

Small talk in the elevator. That first syllable out loud when the stranger next to you turns and receives. This universe next to me, now chuckling, who would’ve probably(gladly) stayed silent for the ride. I tell my partner that you can almost see a person return to the present, come back to their bodies. I wish I could bring everyone back to their bodies.

Naomi and I are walking down the hallway from the living room to bathroom. It is not a long walk at all but she takes my hand. She takes my hand and it is the best part. The very best part. Of what? Of anything.