Eight thirty in the am grey light seeping through the windows of my parents' basement.
Last night I went out for dinner with my mom.
We talked. We talked about how much she regrets her marriage, how much she regrets not having left him when we were little.
We talked about work and goals and I briefly and carefully told her about the men in my life.
Carefully.
She didn't yell. I don't know if it was the wine, the fact that sushi really does make everything better...
...or the lazy morning she'd spent getting facials and manicures from desperate pharmaceutical companies.
Maybe it's the fact that she's found a touch of independence from my father and doesn't always have to be the stressed out bitch she was the last fifteen years.
Chais pas. Chais pas and I'm afraid to hope as usual, one too many nights up late crying the disappointment into these pages.
The great disappointment here is that the monstre is failing to hope for the best, such a rare thing that it hurts more than anything.
A monstre that loses belief... C'est honteux, mais bon.
I'm trying and for the moment nothing has crashed.
In the meantime, my Visa is carefully stickered inside my passport, my car is nearing ditch-it-in-a-used-lot readiness (and I am ashamed at how much I will miss the geek bumper sticker and stylized punk butterflies on the windows), my valises are shined and slowly being packed full of maple syrup cans.
Mr grandfather called to speak to my mother this morning, and hung up when he recognized my voice.
At least he recognized it this time.
The streets here remain too wide and too brick-ugly, running into old ghosts in town last night while wrapping up the last vestiges of the souvenir shopping spree, I had nothing left in me with which to wonder if it was pride or arrogance that spurred the gleeful undertone to my "Oh, you haven't seen me around because I've been living in Paris".
Tonight is la grande fete. (where I will bemoan not having enough time to hug Steven and Kaff and cf a handful of cherished others) Today I have a paper list full of things to cross off and erase from my stresses.
Tomorrow, I leave for Paris, and wonder what it is that kepy me from saying "I leave for home".
I seem to thrive on this confusion.