Crows

There’s little time for personal blogs anymore.  Everything is angle, niche, educational. There’s nothing about a Mom blog that can be optimized for a more kale-infused life.

Mom bloggers have moved on: to podcasts and social media positions and gondola rides with their teenagers.  They’ve had divorces and promotions, run-ins with the bottle and enough with blogging Conferences.  Or, they’ve just moved along, quietly and purposefully.  Life’s urgencies and random judgments have quelled the need to share the minutae, or at least the type that can’t be reasonably extracted into a thirty-second attention span.

It’s 2016, and that means YouTube lipstick tutorials and Instagram filtered selfies with #likeittoknowit, strategic blue white light slicing  errant pimples.

I haven’t missed personal blogging like I thought I would because I’ve been sorting out lunchboxes and plotting sales plans, snoring on redeyes and feeling guilty about all of the things I’ve swept under my bed.  I write in my head and in paragraphs under Instagram captions, sometimes on linkedin.  I have a secret book started but it’s not urgent anymore: it’s unraveling at its leisure because I’m finally learning to be softer with myself.

It’s been a year since my Dad died and it’s not coincidental that I’m writing here again, now.  He always liked reading the things I wrote and I can picture him holding one of my pre-pubescent manuscripts grinning: “You’re such a hoot, Kristin.  You’re such a hoot.”

Death is something that gets in your bones and jolts out of them at strangely designated moments: holidays, birthdays, first times.  As the calendar approaches April 11, I can’t stop thinking about him.

His legs, how thin he was on that hospital bed.  His words in the wheelchair outside the hospital, I love you dad, I said, and it wasn’t weird. Finally.  In the morning sun, when it’s just Summer and I in the kitchen and the rest of the family is sleeping, I can feel something oddly familiar, like his shoulder and his Old Spice and his deep gravel voice – entrenched in the mountains across the water.

“Hi Dad,” I whisper,”We are good.  Mom is strong and the kids build forts with her on Sunday nights.  Dave sent me a text today.  Jude says you are dancing in his heart.”

I don’t know why but I often think of him whenever a crow soars overhead, lands on our balcony, eyes us curiously from a forest branch perch. Spirit animals, energy transfer, our continual march toward frailty and what really matters.