The swoosh of each car passing outside my living room window is a steady reminder that I am here in this world. In this body. In this life.
Nothing is familiar except the sweet smiles of my babies.
That’s not true. There is one thing, so painfully familiar, that I wonder if it will belong to me forever. This feeling of shifting, moving, unsteady stepping into the unknown. This turning inward, where I know I am safest. Where I know I belong. Home is where my heart is, and my heart, after all of the romantic fancy has dissolved, is a fist-shaped wad of muscle pumping deep inside my chest cavity. Home is inside me, and as far as I can tell, so are my children, despite never actually having been inside my body.
They have burrowed deep into my soul like no other human has ever done. They hold court over a legion of well-loved pets and a long-forgotten imaginary friend. They are keeping me rooted – still, waiting, reaching for hope day after day.
After growing accustomed to a daily routine, after trying to let this life take root, I feel again, most profoundly, that I have no idea what will happen to me. Despite promises, despite wishes, despite the things I know and the things I want the air is too thick with emotion to predict which way it next will blow.
What’s a Schnoo to do? I can’t give up hope. There’s too much to lose to not try everything and anything that might work. I shall continue to make lists, organize schedules, wash dishes, sort clothes, fold laundry, sing bedtime songs until the air is clear and we are all safe and sound.
I don’t know what that looks like, but I know we’ll get there.