I knock, gently, on the door, but there is no answer. Perhaps I am at the wrong address.
I begin to walk away, tracing my steps back down the brick path leading away from the door lined with empty, wooden flower beds.
But then, the door creaks open. A woman, with streaks of gray in her frizzy, dark brown hair, and the most gentle face I have ever seen. Her skin is pale, but a rosy pink still stains her cheeks, and her eyes are blue like the summer sky. For a split second, she is beaming, but her radiant smile drops when it sees me.
“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong address. I’ll be going now.”
She used to come home every spring at about this time, flowers sprouting from her suitcase and sun beaming from her headlights as she rolled into the driveway.
No, I’m sorry for looking so disappointed, stranger. I thought, for a second, you were my daughter. She used to come home every spring at about this time, flowers sprouting from her suitcase and sun beaming from her headlights as she rolled into the driveway.
She stares straight through me.
I haven’t seen her in a while, though.
Her wrinkled eyes squint, and she examines me up and down.
You look wary, like you’ve had a long journey that has led you here. Would you like some tea before you head on? I could use some company.
—
The fire quietly flickers in the mantle, right next to the table at which we currently sit. On top of the bricks sit frame after frame of a young woman with the same piercing but kind blue eyes.
I would make her bed for her when she came home, like clockwork. When she left, her pillows would be strewn into the floor, blankets crumpled together at the foot of her bed. I would leave it unmade for some time before I touched it—it made me feel like she was still here. But, eventually I stripped the sheets for the wash because I thought that when she did eventually return home, she’d want a tidy bed.
She pours me another cup of tea from her green, porcelain teapot. The tea is a striking red against the cup. Pomegranate.
Do you like the tea? It was her favorite growing up.
I nod, the tang of the fruit coating my tongue. Her. She is distinctly not here, and yet, her presence permeates every inch of this place.
Her grief is tangible, so thick I can almost taste its flavor in my tea.
Her bed is made now–I bought her new sheets last year. Pulled the white linens over the corners as tight as I could, neatly folded the top section back. Fluffed the down of her pillows, and opened the windows to let out the dust. I swore, it was warmer than usual that day. The air that blew in through the screen smelled of spring and sunshine. It reminded me that she would soon be on her way.
Her grief is tangible, so thick I can almost taste its flavor in my tea. I do not have to look into her eyes to notice her tears. The air is heavy with loss, but of what kind, I cannot place.
I have tried to travel where it is warm. Her father and I have tried to go out and explore the world in the way we could not when she was with us. But it never feels warm to me. Something is always missing. The cold always finds its way back to me.
Motherhood was my life, my daughter was my life.
The old woman takes a sip of her tea, the clink of the cup on the saucer echoes through the otherwise quiet house. Sunlight tries to fight its way into her somber home, only to be met with dark green curtains draped over the singular window. Its failure only casts more shadows upon the room. It is early in the afternoon, but the house feels dimly-lit and transient, like dusk.
The corporate underworld. The long hours and rigid schedules that define what it means to be grown.
I draw in a breath, expecting the worst. “And where is she now?”
Oh, perhaps I have made it sound like she is passed. No, the seasons of her life have simply whisked her away from here. She spends long hours in her office, and there is never any time to visit. She still looks happy...
I let out a sigh of relief. She trails off.
I don't think I would have been happy that far away from my family, though. She spends her days trapped in the corporate underworld.
The corporate underworld. The long hours and rigid schedules that define what it means to be grown.
She sends me pictures of her and her husband. All I can see is my smiling baby, my toddler looking up at me, beckoning me to carry her back to the comforts of home. I see the ambitious teenager finishing her homework in the kitchen late at night, and I see the young adult with joy in her eyes as her dog runs outside to welcome her home from college. I see the joy and the warmth that she brings to whoever she is with, wherever she is in the world. I wish I could have just another moment of her being here, another spring day where she comes home with the intention of staying until the fall.
It is silent for a moment.
Is to be a mother to watch the product of all of your sacrifices flourish from afar, from the discomfort of an empty nest?
What’s worst of all is when I look in the mirror, I see her too. Our eyes are the same blue. Our smiles both curve slightly to our left. The spring breezes used to tousle my hair in the same way, creating the same gentle waves. And I am reminded of the better part of me—but she isn’t here.
But, she says, I am happy for her. To live in such a city, to work for such a great firm, she worked hard for it–she uprooted her whole life for it. She has spent long days in winter, too.
Is to be a mother to watch the product of all of your sacrifices flourish from afar, from the discomfort of an empty nest? Is this what happens after motherhood?
No, there cannot be after motherhood. There is only waiting around the house, hoping your child decides to come home for a visit. It is trying to live your life as it was before, making their bed, tending the garden, and being overwhelmed by their absence. It is comforting yourself with your child’s success to ease the desire to turn back the clock and have just one more moment with them.
To her, only her daughter is the spring.
It is no wonder she does not open her curtains. She does not even realize that the sunshine is thawing the frozen ground. To her, only her daughter is the spring.
She has a dog of her own now, he guards her apartment loyally. Her husband, and their friends can host gatherings, and holidays. She lives in the building closest to the river on the outskirts of the city—the one with green ivy creeping up its side. A ferry can take you from her city to the country, but she says that it feels like you have to wait 100 years to get on.
For the first time in our conversation, she smiles, sits upright in her chair.
She says she might come home for a week in May, though. Bring her husband, and her dog too. Her father and I are so excited.
She looks towards the window, but not out. A gust of wind rattles through the pine trees near the driveway. Is it a warm breeze, or a chilly gust? There is no way of knowing from in here.
Motherhood must be the ability to wait, for however long it is necessary.
It has been so cold here. Did you see my flowerbeds? I haven't been able to garden at all.
I sigh, and finish the last drop of my tea, lips stained crimson. Few are so kind as to offer tea to a complete stranger. She deserves to tend to her garden. She deserves for the bed to be unmade.
I hope we get a nice, warm spring this year.
She looks to the door with longing. Such patience with the world must come with motherhood. Motherhood must be the ability to wait, for however long it is necessary.
“Maybe you will get one. I hope you do.”
—
