The fog flies thin and breathy over the windshield of my car. In transparent, transient clouds, the lake exhales -- breath moving again after winter's frozen coma. The season is changing by degrees. Groaning under a week of warmer weather. The mud loosens under softening snow.
I wonder if it hurts -- the change. The shape shift. The thaw.
It finally happened. She said it.
I don't LOVE. YOU. ANY. MORE!!
Girl-two rages on. Again. It's been a long week.
I release 20 slow exhales (One minute. Thank you, Stacy) and keep my voice even.
I'm sorry to hear that, E. I love you very much.
When the fit finally fizzles out, she falls asleep. I watch her chest rising and falling and I wonder about the depths I can't see. About growth -- in body or mind or spirit. About subtle degrees and changing seasons.
The stretching, the shape-shifting -- it must hurt. I let her sleep.
I look forward to Spring. To warm, gentle breezes. But I know the thaw comes first -- muddy and groaning and stuck in between.
All I can do is watch. Wait. Breathe.
This is where we are.