Parallel
By Melissa Delizia
She hasn’t had an appetite in days but she wakes up to a breakfast delivery from her best friend and the sounds of her sister singing with her two year old son in the other room.
I’m pulled out of the bliss of sleep by my son and my dog urging me from either side to wake up before the sun’s come up. I open my phone to two late night missed calls and a text from my ex-husband letting me know he can’t come pick up our son later. I go through the mental list of alternative babysitters and find a reason not to ask each of them for help today.
She takes a long, cleansing shower with a eucalyptus scented shower steamer and her calming music playing over the speakers. Tears run down her face as the water runs over her body.
I mentally calculate the next time I can take a shower without my kid following me in, now that his dad isn’t going to have him today. I consider what my limit is for the amount of time between washing my hair before I need to ask someone else for help.
Her dog walker has just taken the dog for his first of three walks of the day so she can get dressed slowly. Her sister gets her son dressed while her best friend saves her the trouble and picks out an outfit for her to wear.
We bundle up to brave the cold so we can take the dog for a walk. For him: pajamas, a second pair of pants, sweatshirt, jacket, hat, mittens, double pairs of socks, and faux fur lined boots. For me, sweatpants and a t-shirt under my jacket. A jacket that I keep open to wrap around him as I carry us into the frigid winter morning.
Her path from the front door to the passenger side door of her car has been impeccably shoveled by the neighbor across the street.
I slide on the ice on the way to the yard and barely catch my balance, pulling a muscle in my back to keep us from falling.
She’s not aware of what day of the week it is, she barely notices the garbage bin at the edge of the driveway, having been taken out by one of the many sets of hands in charge of helping keep her house clean.
I realize it’s garbage day again and I think about how many weeks and full bags of garbage it’s been since I’ve been able to bring my bin to the curb. I double back after letting the dog inside and try to drag the overfull bin down the path. One arm holding my kid, the other dragging the bin. I only get a quarter of the way to the driveway before the ice becomes too thick and I can’t get any further. I let out a defeated sigh. My arms feel like jelly from holding my kid, my legs are working overtime as my back spasms with each step I take. I consider leaving it there and giving up.
Her kid is buckled into his carseat by her sister as she rests her head on the cold window from the passenger seat of her car and disappears into a disassociative daze.
My kid grabs my cheeks with his mittened hands and whispers, “it’s okay, mama” as I huff out a sigh of frustration. He points to the sky, urging me to remember where I am and let the sun hit my face for just a moment. I let his energy seep into my being as my brain recalibrates into problem solving mode. I muster up the strength to put my kid in his carseat, start the car, and pull it out of the driveway. I flip on my hazards, jump out of the car, and run up to grab the bin. With my car out of the way I can pull it easily down the driveway and onto the curb. I quickly get back in the car and coast it into the driveway. I turn off the car and go back around to take my kid out of his carseat as he says, “you did it, Mama!”
Her groceries have been unloaded with pre-cooked meals from the community meal train keeping them fed every day.
We head back inside, and I start an online grocery order, trying to remember how many times we’ve eaten grilled chicken in the last week. I scroll through the endless options and fight tears of frustration as they slide down my face, feeling decision fatigue at having to plan every meal for the two of us. I only add a few things to the cart before I get called away from the task by my toddler’s request to breastfeed.
She heads off to her art class while her son is with his grandmother. Her phone keeps lighting up with pictures and texts and condolences that she won’t reply to herself.
I log in for a meeting that I can only be halfway present in, trying to listen and give input while intercepting my kid and dog as they take turns trying to put things they’re not supposed to in their mouths.
She doesn’t have the mental energy to think about what she needs before she leaves the house. She is handed a bottle of water, a sandwich, and a xanex when she gets back into the car.
I pack our bags for the day. His bag has his two favorite dinosaur figures, three different snack options, precut strawberries, his favorite water cup, and a change of clothes. My bag has my wallet, keys, and a granola bar that might be my only meal until dinner.
Her best friend goes through her agenda for the week as she lets her mind wander, not needing to, or able to remember any of the details. She trusts someone will be there to take her where she needs to go and when. After a few minutes, she turns on the last playlist her husband made, and her best friend holds her hand while she sobs.
Somehow, I got us out the door only five minutes late. I run through the mental list of things I have to do for the next few days and feel panic coursing through my body, unsure how I’ll get it all done on my own. After a few minutes, I turn on my breakup playlist, letting the silent tears stream down my face as I drive to our destination.
About the Author
Melissa is a writer, witch, social worker, griever, mom, friend, teacher, and forever learner. She thrives in community spaces, so continues to create and facilitate them because she is a virgo through and through. She teaches various classes through Lamort - a death education collective, and writes stories exploring the connection between worlds and liminal spaces. When she’s not writing, teaching, or momming, you can find her reading romance and not knowing how to sit still for more than twenty minutes.
