Boulevard of Broken Dreams
My hands bear technicolor stains from operating a slushy machine - the one behind the concession stand at my sons’ Little League game, where I spent my morning. Alongside other parents, of course - most friendly, one whose tone and demeanor made it clear to me that she had better things to do.
I am not that mother. Every sacrifice I make for my kids is a loving, conscious choice. So much so that I forget, ignore, or simply forego the notion of self-care. A shower, a solo car ride, or a trip to the grocery store - ANY quiet time at all - is a fucking vacation.
While driving along en route to various errands, I stopped at the local high school because they were holding one of those fundraising car washes. I pondered how they didn’t seem cold, as sixty degrees can feel like Antarctica when your friend is shooting cold water across the roof of a minivan, right in your direction.
And I thought about Matt, in New York City, shooting scenes with my favorite actor. For. The. Second. Goddamn. Time.
We postponed a Mother’s Day celebration because of his show last week, rescheduled it for today, and now he’s unable to make it because he’s working on American Hustle.
It doesn’t normally occur to me to feel badly that our lives seem worlds apart at times. Maybe it was the stains on my hands, or the mundane talk of parents whose only achievement is in or through their progeny, or the timely blare of my car radio, of Billy Joe echoing the hollow ache in my chest with words about walking alone.
Whatever it was… my heart broke a little today.
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