Autumn for Me, Please

Forget spring, autumn has always been my time of renewal. In Illinois, the days would change in light, scent and even texture, transforming my freckled cheeks into smooth-skinned apples by Halloween. We lived on a large corner lot full of oak trees that rained leaves continuously from early September until the first kick-ass storm. Weekends found us outside, raking and jumping into the piles, again and again until either we tired of the game or our father tired of us. Leaf burning has long since been banned, of course, but in those pre-green days of the 70s we gleefully burned those musty, nearly damp leaves. Grown children of the suburbs need only catch a brief whisper of incinerated leaf in the air to be once again back home, sprawled on cool, hard earth with the neighbor kids, the dog of their youth begging for one more stick throw.

As an adult, or almost adult, football games, the new course schedule, a nubby, cherry-red sweater and pub crawls restored my sense of possibility. The slant of light, the rush of wind promised another good friend, another love, another chance. And at last I could tumble into a book without summer coaxing me out to dance in her sunlight and green, green gardens.

Maybe spring is just too sloppy, with the melting mess of snow, mud and sprouting green things underfoot. Spring showers never brought as much drama as autumn storms. Moving to Northern California 21 years ago I didn't understand that I would be sacrificing thunderstorms for a monsoon season. The first year I kept waiting for the rain to let up and finally asked a neighbor, a native, if the deluge was normal. "No, we're in a drought," he lamented.

My ritual observation of the season metamorphosed into an annual pilgrimmage to Chicago. Every October or November I would make the trip, usually timed to celebrate my mother's birthday or Thanksgiving. Elaborate preparations evolved. New clothing was purchased, leather shoes were hunted and acquired, visits with friends and family coordinated. Because I wanted to return to my San Francisco flat and find it welcoming and cheerful (to balance the inevitable homesickness) I would become a whirling, frenzied cleaning fiend for weeks before leaving. Projects untouched for months had to be completed before departure. Since I normally had someone stay to care for my pets this added another wrinkle; I prepared for my "house guest" with the attentive detail reserved for visiting parents and first dates. Everything had to be perfect, and I hoped the petsitter would be of the tidy persuasion and leave my home in like condition for my return.

The journeys home ceased with the death of my parents. Some traditions survived; my husband and children know all too well that the house must be showcase-ready before we leave on vacations. One of Mom's little eccentricities, like having to unpack immediately upon arrival and creating a homey nest for everyone. This current trip back to Chicago is bringing up all the old tendencies that have been dormant for a decade. I've been preparing the house, readying the family, advance-planning the kids' schedules so as not to be avalanched with errands upon return. Today I found myself shredding documents that my husband finally weeded from his bill-paying stash. As I was feeding them one-by-one through the steaming machine, cursing myself for not having invested in an industrial strength model, I noticed the date on one statement: 2003. And I felt the need to shred these documents a few days before leaving for Chicago because...? Because I want my office space, the space I evicted my husband from in order to have a writing area, to be clean and inviting when I walk back in the door. When I come home in eight days I know my house will be unrecognizable. Two young children, an insanely wild Australian Cattledog, several cats and a husband less attentive to environmental conditions than I guarantee it. But I need to leave home with everything in order.

A simple calendar is in place for Joe and the kids to follow. It lists what they do each day and what I'll be doing. There's a page of phone numbers of all the people I'll be seeing and when I'll be seeing them. The laundry is done, and food for snacks, lunches and dinners will be in the cupboard. A present for a friend's party is wrapped and ready to go. Invitations have been sent for our daughter's birthday coming in just a few weeks; her gifts are nearly purchased, the cake ordered, party favors gathered. Today I had the carpet cleaned; it needed it, and the cat who has been mistaking it for her box will be seeing the vet before I leave.

The goldfish seemed to be well -- there's a history of goldfish tragedy and demise related to my trips -- until yesterday, when my daughter noticed that Tigger seemed to be staggering in the water. A gorgeous three-inch-long comet, she did seem to be awkwardly trying to move about, like the drunk who makes a good effort to show she really isn't drunk at all. Pooh was spending too much time hiding at the bottom. An inventory of symptoms, a trip to the fish store, and I've just enough time to treat my 3-year-old friends before leaving.

Does it really matter if I get everything done? Nope. I know this. Does putting my home in order, preparing my family for my absence, taking care of my pets have as much to do with my renewal as it does with practicing to leave? I've been wondering if and how I can ever leave them behind. My little trips are helping me understand how this is done, taking my fear away and I hope building their confidence in themselves, and in my returning to them.

The Unbearable Tenderness of Boys

They sit, arms entangled, caps tipped on top of their unruly hair as another Saturday T-Ball game stretches out like summer before them. Their heads are pressed together, they confer in some mysterious language known only to them. Every now and then one will tip back his head and laugh, the clear sound sending ripples over the field. Now five years old, the boys have been friends for two years of preschool and carpools, birthday parties and playdates with older sisters bossing the activities. The smaller boy is more expressive with his affection and greets his friend with warm hugs, grins; he's never been refused.

Another day, another boy shares his time. They head to the bowling alley, happy to be just two boys and a mom, no big sisters hovering nearby to take over. The second boy is dark, the same age, and quiet. Only the edge of competition is visible between them and they skirt it with a smile, hefting over the ball or uttering "good one" now and then. There is no challenge between them yet, and parting is time to race and yell "let's go!"

Between bites of our staple of lunches out — chicken strips — he glances up and holds my gaze with his water blue eyes so like his grandfather's. "I love you, Mom." No preamble, no agenda. He seems a little surprised at himself, then admits, "I didn't know I was going to say that until I said it."

"That's the best kind of 'I love you', buddy," I tell him.


Most mornings he is in the bed, sprawled between his father and I, when we awake. Somehow, sometime during the night, he managed to place himself between the covers, not waking us and leaving undisturbed the arthritic cat who has been known to reward unexpected movement with slashes. "Time to cuddle, Mom," he whispers, snuggling his blonde head in my neck and wrapping gentle arms around my waist.

His sister is two years older. The two of them are tightly bound, almost like an old married couple, knowing how to needle each other to blows and cajole the other back to good humor. If he is offered a treat he has never failed to ask for an extra to take to his sister, and he does, proudly offering his bounty to her. This past year he drew a family portrait and the family member who was at center, and the most detailed in his novice art portrayal, was not his mom or dad or cat but his big sister.


We are in the ER, another weekend begun in fun and ending with curved steel threading closed the edges of skin. This time his forehead carries the evidence of exuberance denied. Run, run, thump, sob. The sound brought me from dinner ministrations to the opening of the living room, where he is staggering towards me, a hand to the gaping wound, blood cascading down his cheeks. A warm blanket of calm wraps itself around me and I begin to touch him. As he relates in a cracked voice how he stumbled and flew into the hard leg of the chair I'm shepherding him into the kitchen, directing his father to get a clean towel from the drawer to staunch the flow, wiping the red drips from his blonde hair and dark lashes before they reach his eyes. His sister stands in the doorway, sizing up the scene, leaves and returns with her coat and a statement: "I'm going."

We all go. We are turned away from Urgent Care when they see the wound. The hospital ER requires longer waits: triage, registration, nurse, doctor, cleaning, doctor. While he is being stitched I am leaning on the bed, holding his hands and gazing into his tearless eyes. He is searching mine, seeking reassurance so I cannot look away. I count the stitches (2 interior, 4 or 5 exterior) and pretend he is the toy bunny I have recently sewn up, but the thread is not green, like the color we chose together. I don't think I can ask the doctor for a bright color; black seems to be standard issue. I decide to wink, a skill he has recently mastered. He winks back, and I melt. My little one, his forehead splayed open, already attempting to bridge the gap between boyhood and manhood by reassuring his mother that he is ok.


It is late. I am on the sofa reading, an unheard of pleasure. I hear him before I see the tumbled curls atop his small, sturdy frame in the doorway. "Mom, I can't sleep."

I hold out my arm and he tumbles over the sofa back, wedging himself between the pillows and my side, his breath warm on my cheek. We share the quiet of the slumbering house together. In a husky voice that hints of the boy he may grow to be my son asks, "Mom, do you think you're gonna die from the cancer?"

Oh, Danny, how do I answer you? Because I honestly, at this moment, think that I am going to die from the cancer that found its way into my breast, the breast that you nursed from for two years. The breast that you made such a sour face at before switching to the other side, the favored side. Did the milk taste foul to you? Would I have discovered the tumor sooner had I abandoned the sweetness of nursing you after only a few months, or did those two years keep the cancer at bay?

"No, Danny, I don't think I'm going to die from cancer." His body relaxes into mine, a deep sigh escapes his chest. He believes me. His arm twines itself around my neck like the star jasmine I planted near the front door last spring, the sweet tendrils of his love reaching, reaching far into my heart until I too, believe me.