A Friday morning, February, 2020:
The subway doors open, a crisp air bursts through. I scoot over and adjust my book.
A passenger picks up her phone. I envy her polished dress. “Hello?” she says. “This is Shannon. Yes, yes, he’s my husband.”
I look down. Please let her husband be ok, I pray silently. Let her family be ok. Let everything be ok. Yesterday, a friend confessed her motherhood worry. “I’m constantly worried something will happen to us,” she said. “Is that normal?”
It is for me, I told her.
Must a life of care mean a life of worry? The phone call, the news, the constant churn of worry’s white noise machine. Is this fundamental to feeling, to love?
Shannon looks up from her phone. “Yes, we’re looking to sell the condo,” she says.
I exhale, a little too loudly. The subway doors open.
A Friday morning, February, 2021:
I’m curled up in a pillow fortress, a book in my lap. Nearly one year since my last train commute. A year since I regularly witnessed small moments in strangers’ lives. A year consumed by a pandemic, cancer, loss and growth. So many somethings have happened. All quietly. We’ve loved and worried in isolation. I glance at the page below, a poem:
Nothing must happen to you
No, what I am saying
Everything must happen to you
And it must be wonderful
Did worry prevent anything? No. Was it all wonderful? Absolutely not. But even in worry, there was love. One part of everything, one part of so many somethings.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale —an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in this series “280 Words”.