nests

and what they feel like empty

Last night, we sold the natural pine shelving unit in the girls’ room. I was the one who photographed it for my mom to post; I was the one who coordinated the pickup time and made sure Jim would be home (since I was out taking the girls on a date). It had always been a hard shelf to use; nothing seemed to fit properly on it, and it mostly stood empty. Still, when I walked into their room that evening, the empty space between the head of Lucy’s bed and the wall felt huge. It also felt magnetic, like I might pitch forward into it and fall off a cliff.

Where did it go? the girls asked, their voices stricken. My eyes filled with tears. Why are you crying? they wanted to know, and started bringing me blankets and pillows. I gave them a hug and laughed through my tears. I miss the shelf, I said. It will be okay, Lucy said. It was just a shelf.

I am going to miss this house, I said. They looked at me. I will miss you being little here, I said, crying harder. Are you hot? Lucy asked, looking at my fleece. I guess I am, I said, looking down. Lucy darted from the room.

I followed her downstairs, where our friend Theresa was sitting at the kitchen table. Lucy began filling snack-sized baggies with ice cubes. Is someone hurt? Theresa asked. No, I said. They just got sad about the shelf, and then I got sad about the shelf. Theresa smiled. Lucy asked me to pick a baggie. I don’t care, I said. They all have three ice cubes, she said, and handed me one.

I read to them and turned out the lights. Naomi was snoring softly. Lucy was still awake and wanted me to cuddle with her, so I did, remembering all the nights when she was a toddler and she wanted me to stay longer, and I was exhausted and frightened by books that had said parents often over-support sleep and thus impair their children’s ability to self-soothe and fall asleep on their own. There have been so many tears at bedtime, and I have often felt so overwhelmed. But tonight felt different; I didn’t care about the books. I know she can fall asleep. So we cuddled.

Will this count as part of the fifteen minutes? she asked. I had promised to come back in fifteen minutes, and possibly read if she was still awake. I don’t know, I said. But I like cuddling with you.

Downstairs, Jim handed me a piece of paper. It’s a poem, he said. It will make you cry.

I heard my shelf’s farewell
though my kids first had to say

Where did you take it?
Why did it go away?

And looking back I remembered
how it held my distant eye

Quietly
Yielding

Until dismembered
with a sigh

A stranger took it from our house
and remembered how his son

Once drew him pictures that he treasured
but now those days are done

Just as he finished reading it out loud (he was right about me crying), Lucy appeared on the stairs, dragging her blanket. Are the fifteen minutes up yet? she wanted to know. Two more minutes, I told her, but I can come now.

Why are you crying again? she wanted to know once we were upstairs. Daddy wrote a poem for me and it made me cry. Why would he do that if it makes you sad? she wanted to know. He didn’t do it to make me sad, I said. I think he understands why I’m sad and he wanted to relate to me.

I stroked her hair and put my hand on her ribcage, still crying. I love you so, so much, I said. I know, she said, her voice sounding younger. Mama loves me this much. She spread out her arms all the way. Mama loves me more than the universe.

I think I do love you more than the universe, I said, a little hoarsely.

Why are you still crying? she wanted to know. I am remembering all the nights when bedtime felt hard, I said. The nights when it didn’t feel like I had what you needed. I want you to feel loved and safe. I want you to be okay.

But I am okay, she said. I am okay right now.