January 24, 2014

The sort of year I'd like to remember fondly, but I'm still too close to the chaos of what it was.

 I will remember my sister.

 I will remember her taking my four year old out dancing until 11pm, as if she was nineteen, sneaking her into the club, busting moves to whatever the kids are dancing to these days. I will remember all of the late nights talking and scraping floors and rolled organics and road trips West, North and East. I will remember watching her run a marathon through the hills and neighborhoods of the twin cities, driving frantically from mile marker to mile marker in hopes of catching a glimpse and cheering her on. She is one beautiful and dedicated and independent woman if there ever was one.

 I will remember my Dad returning from trips this way and that, Africa or Turkey or Columbia or who knows where, and the way he looked at my children as if it had been a whole year since he saw them last.

 I will remember my mother and her condo in the city, a refuge of cleanliness and padded carpet and tenderness that was our home away from home.

 Dear, beautiful, like minded friends, who we stayed up late with and shared Thanksgiving with and fixed gutters with. You don't think it's possible to make deep friendships anymore, like there isn't room in life or your good fortune has run out, and then you move to a new city and introduce yourselves and then it happens.

 And my kids. Taking in stride their parents crazy whims, taking baths in plastic bins and moving from place to place, room to room, bed to bed, while we shuttled around the house to the repetitious tune of fixing and cleaning, fixing and cleaning. Having one parent a day, five or six days a week, mom till 3, dad till bed. They made friends and explored and grew up and neither of them will probably remember much of it.

 I will though. Our crazy year spent fixing up a broken old house, etc.