July 14, 2020. Prussian Blue

 Earlier this year, I took a walk out along the water at St Osyth.  If you putter down the winding lanes, past the village, further, further, further still, you'll find yourself where rock and sand collide and stretch out far beyond your expectations of the place you have found yourself.  There must have been a pavilion out this way that burned; you can see the twisted steel jutting out of the sand. In a certain light, from a certain angle, it looks as though pieces of steel are people, hunkering down from a storm. This stretch of coastline makes being in Colchester worth the isolation and loneliness I've traded for that proximity.

It has been 5 yeCircaars, 5 months and 5 days since last I last sat myself down to write you a letter. And so much living has transpired. So much love, heartbreak, laughter, and joy...so much of it, that I'm beyond articulation. And your mama loves to talk, my sweet blue boy. But you remember that.

A week ago, I woke up to the sound of an infant crying in an adjacent flat. I was at your uncle's place in North London.  I dream-walked to the kitchen and there you were, sitting at the breakfast table. Your grandmother was making hash browns, your great-grandfather was eyeing you over the tops of his reading glasses, a wry smile in place.  GG wasn't in the room but I could hear her, off in not-so-distant room.  And Betsy Pence was sitting next to you, gently tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.  She looked at me and smiled.  'You see? It will all be okay. It is always going to be okay.'

In my dream, you're still that vaguely Prussian Blue, but in motion. You're breathing, on your own, and it isn't your last breath.  You clamber from the table and rush past me...I can feel you brush against the t-shirt I am wearing. You're alive - somewhere - and safe in a way I could not keep you.  And I mouth 'Thank you,' back.  I go back to sleep and it is an easy sleep, something that isn't always within easy reach.

In the five years that have moved at a clip I can't fathom, so much has occurred. And you already know so much of it: your grandmother and great-grandmother have arrived to what ever astral plane  you reside on.  The fire that devoured your grandmother's body ultimately wasn't what punctuated that story; you can thank Klebsiella for that.  GG's bladder was devoured by cancer, your Granny Lou is officially demented and in the best way, the kind that seems to laugh and eat ice cream, as opposed to point a single barrel shotgun at those who would bring flowers. Grandpa Jim keeps walking apace, 7 years past the ten-year expiry date they gave him in 2003, back when they took a third of his heart.  Now he sits on a blue sofa, staring at the news or stands on the front porch, eyes narrowed over his cigarette, thinking about how he'd eat the rest of his heart if they'd let him trade places with Grammy.  But we don't get to make those kinds of trades. I learned that the hard way, when they told us they try to save the mothers first. Of course, then it felt like a condemnation and a punishment. I didn't know I would be able to go on, you see. I didn't know that I could keep living without you.

There has been travel, breakups, and bust-ups and now I'm almost back to my own name. I didn't even need to burn my bra to get it back.  I went back to school and got me another piece of paper, a few more letters after my new/old name. I went back into the proverbial typing pool, and it isn't far off minimum wage. And now there is a there is a global pandemic, a strain of something that infects and annihilates with a lethal grace. There are not enough ventilators, there isn't enough housing, there isn't enough work and all you can do is wait. And whilst I have your brother and your sister traveling with me, I realize I'm getting to stage where I just might be almost ready to let someone else share the ride. Almost. You knowing me...I move slowly, right up until I don't.

You have a brother now: a fiercely loving, rangy boy we named Alexander Elmo who brings me joy and tries my patience every day. And your sister is now 9, with the leggy grace of racehorse just about to learn her paces.  It is terrifying how quickly it has all come around.  I sat on a mountain the Carpathians in February, atop another mountain in Mexico in March, and now I sit in my courtyard and wonder that I might ever get on another plane. I will, of course. Probably sooner than I think. But still, these last months have brought time to pause, because I just can't keep the pace going as it was, in the same manner that I couldn't quite keep you on this side of my world.