Late October rain, heavy in its coldness, plunks on the metal roof. The trees are mostly bare, save for the stubborn papery leaves of beech saplings, dim orange lights in these woods. It is Sunday morning, after a long stretch of school days, and the introvert in me feels relieved for this solitude, this grey dark day with not much that has to be done, except this work of resetting. And yet, like the dog in his bed, circling and circling, where do I land?
Always I am looking for my next story to write. Occasionally I see one, and I try to inventory the thoughts, the details, the sequence, in hopes I can store it for the time I will settle here to write. But the stories don’t usually keep well. On days when a story comes, and I can set it down right then, the story is preserved. Not so when I try to go back, to that good whole idea I envisioned a week or a month ago.
Sitting here now I see glimpses. From back in August when my dad was here with Louise for a five day visit that was only two…arriving late and leaving early, so eager to be with Quinn, and yet so unable to be away from home. From September when Sam was in Switzerland, missing Quinn’s 9th birthday (which was out of his control), and the early weeks of third grade. The rages she had and, in so doing, triggered in me. The lucky break when I thought to tell my dad and Louise, on the phone, that Quinn was having trouble at school with a girl…I listened, from the hallway, to the details she had refused to share with me—that she was being pushed around. The partnership that developed in the days following. I believe you, I tried to show her. I trust you, she showed me.
In contrast to that girl at school who, thankfully, has moved away, I see glimpses of her with her new and important friend. A new neighbor and friend by choice, not one formed by circumstance. A friend with whom she is wholly herself, and her best self. Their shared love of baking, and soccer. The hours they will spend drawing, side by side, or having “cozy fort fun time,” building and building their world around them. Their plans, and compromises, their laughter. Their shared delight in each other.
I see the soft contours of the night, while Sam was away, when they had their first sleepover in the cabin. I brought them home from soccer practice together. We ate pizza and played cards at the table and, afterward, we ventured down the hill by lantern light. I see Quinn’s joy in showing her friend our sacred space here in the woods.
The girls slept in the loft; Mosey and I slept on the floor underneath. They played cards for a while. They decorated their halves of the bed with owl pillows and stuffed animals. They read for a while. And then, when I said they should get some sleep, to rest up for their game the next morning, they turned out their lights, triggering some uncontrollable giddiness. They rolled wildly back and forth in their sleeping bags, giggling hysterically for five minutes, before falling still, and sweetly asleep.
Cedar moves away soon too, though not too far away. Her parents’ sabbatical will pull them away from our hill and back to the other side of the state. Quinn knows it is coming. We all know it will be hard. Sam and I try to encourage her to say yes to the play dates she’s invited to with other friends, to the Halloween party, and the birthday party, to the pre-season workouts with the ski club. She says no, again and again. We are trying to keep her connected to other options, to the friends we hope will fill the void, but her focus is on spending every minute she can, while she can. I understand this. In my bones, I know—pulling away early from what you will lose will do nothing to dull the ache when it inevitably comes. And of course, if you do it that way, you will look back, inevitably, and regret not having savored every possible minute. The world reminds us of this, again and again.
After the separation happens, I hope Quinn will be able to look at the experience objectively and take stock of what this friendship has shown her. I hope it has shown her what is possible. That compromise is possible, and that taking turns making decisions is possible. That taking a chance with your heart sometimes pays off. That true friends allow us to be and say anything, without worry or fear. I hope she will see that when she finds the right person, she can trust that person, with her thoughts and her feelings. And I hope she will see that friendships like this one, one that feels a lot like love, can endure.
One night this fall when I was tucking Quinn into bed, she burst into tears. “Are you mad at me, Mom?” It was out of no where. “Why would I be?” I asked, surprised. “Because I’m spending so much time with Cedar.” She hugged me sort of desperately until I managed to reassure her and say something to make her laugh. And as I backed down her loft ladder, trying to keep my voice upbeat, I was struck by the fact that she picked up on something I hadn’t been willing to give words to myself. I wasn’t angry, of course; it’s not that at all. And fortunately, Quinn’s joy is something I experience as my own, and it is enough to keep any pangs of jealousy at bay. And yet…The separation is coming for us too. Not a complete separation, I trust, and nothing we can’t endure, but still, I know her growing up, and out, is a loss I won’t really prepare for.
The rain still falls. Two hours have passed. What is she doing, I wonder, as I hit save and prepare to walk back up the hill.
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