Housekeeping

Marilynne Robinson's and mine

“So when she seemed distracted or absent minded it was in fact, I think, that she was aware of too many things.” -Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson

Of the names of tomatoes - beef steak, heirloom, abe lincoln - that our neighbor offered Jesse and I from his garden. None of them were there yet, just green, thin stalks and quivering leaves. “Take whatever you want,” he told us and we tugged them up from the dirt and put them in a cloth bag with a piece of cardboard at the bottom so the plants wouldn’t tip over.

Of the conversation we had in his wild and organized garden that was full of promise. Our girls in college and heading off to college and trying to get into college - one of them standing right next to me eating an apple, her hair still wet from the shower and curls beginning to form. When I first met her she was learning to swim with another one of our girls who insisted she’d never take her hand off the ledge and absolutely would never ever put her head under water.

Of our trip to the Farmer’s Market for mint and basil and thyme, oregano and maybe chives too for our little garden bed with the white edges like a picket fence. When Jesse and I are alone the conversation is a refrain that I know we’re both exhausted with: I feel like a nag and a nuisance to our girls and nothing more. I don’t feel at home in our house. Saying these things always makes me cry but on the way to the Farmer’s Market I tell him (through tears) I think I figured out why - I’m still the mother I was to them when they were little. When our days and hours and minutes were all spent always together. That was so long ago but that time has imprinted itself on me like a brand a farmer burns on a cow. I tell Jesse I don’t know if I need to let that mother part of me go, but I think I’ve realized I haven’t released her of her duties. Told her good job. Grieved what was in order to make room for what is.

Of the bok choy we buy for potsicker soup and the carrots and sourdough bread for lunches. Of the morning bun and ham and brie croissant Jesse and I buy because I’m starving and he says we’ll split them and I tell him I don’t share food and he knows this but as soon as I get to the ham part I ask him to trade with me. “Everyone is so happy at the Farmer’s Market,” I tell him licking sugar from the morning bun off my fingers.

Of the giant pot of daisies we see on our way out, the kind we had at our wedding. “I want these for our front yard,” I tell Jesse, and he steps closer, examining them. “For the pots out front?” he confirms. There is only one bunch of white daisies and we’d need two so I tell Jesse we can get the yellow daisies instead. Jesse disagrees. Says we should find enough white daisies. “Because that’s what you want.”