August is coming.
August is a big month. August is a month when Things Happen. August was the month of my first wedding. Three years later, August was the month of the divorce. (Yes, my ex asked me for a divorce on our third anniversary. Just one of many “poetic” moves during the whole ordeal.) August is when I’ve lost jobs. Twice. August is when we’ve moved. Twice.
August 2nd marks our first Bostonaversary. I didn’t enjoy living in Boston first time around (’08-09) and couldn’t wait to bust out. It was with a little bit of resignation and slight trepidation that I suggested that it might be the best place for us, as a family. And it is. It’s home. A year in and there’s no place I’d rather be. I have nightmares – yes, nightmares – where we’ve somehow moved and I can’t get back to Beantown. A year in and we have routines, we have our places we go. We go to the little playground twice a day, but never in the middle of the afternoon because there’s no shade and the dark blue floor makes it five degrees hotter than everywhere else. We get sandwiches and eat at the big park, watching the big boys play basketball. The waitress at Five Guys knows Paulo wants a plain bun when we order and has it ready when we get to the counter. I may not ever go to a bar, but the guys at David’s Tea know my name.
A year ago we traded our second car for a new stroller and I would never go back. My apartment may seem claustrophobic to some, but it was an honest relief to have a more live able sized space, a big house felt empty without stuff filling the rooms and we never had the urge or the desire to buy STUFF. A big house was hard to clean, hard to get anything done with kitchens and bedrooms and laundry and bathrooms with a staircase in the middle of whatever you were trying to do. A big house meant a yard – one that had never really been taken care of and was more of a project than we had the energy to take on. A big house meant a small town, meant one playground a fifteen minute walk away. Meant playgroup at the library was a twenty minute drive. Meant to go out anywhere, it was get in the car, get in the Ergo or the Kokopax or the stroller, get back in the car. So many more steps than get in the stroller, open the door.
That, for me, is what it comes down to. Is why I prefer the city. Open the door. Open the door, walk fifteen minutes and it’s the MFA or the Fens. Walk twenty and it’s the Common, twenty five to Chinatown. Just the stroller and out the door and no extra steps in between. Sure the stroller on the T can be a pain, but it’s a pain I prefer to in/out of carseat, in/out of traffic, in/out of stroller again.
And then the Marathon. My heart broke for my city and the scar tissue we’re all forming is a sense of protectiveness, a sense of belonging, a sense of this was done to my HOME. Nothing hammered home being a Bostonian more than the constant images of my city in the news, the places I walk past every day suddenly torn apart. Nothing brought a greater sense of togetherness than staying inside for a day to watch the manhunt, and the subsequent griping of “I can’t believe we all had to stay inside on the first nice day” for the griping is the Boston thing to do.
August is a big month. This August has been marked in my mental calendar for a long time as HUGE and EPIC and more than a little intimidating. I’ll admit at times I’ve gotten ahead of myself and made mountains out if the molehills that this August has in store. Maybe not molehills exactly, maybe they are mountains, but mountains aren’t scary. As Jack Kerouac said, you can’t fall off a mountain. And this paragraph, this entry is making as much sense as a drunken Kerouac poem but it’s in my head and I just need to get it out, to put it down somewhere.
August is coming and just in time, I feel ready.