What I do on a Sunday morning

Stepping out the back door onto the deck, I could feel the chill of the night in the air. The garden is looking wilty, and if that isn’t a word, it should be. I hooked the Bean Dog to her rope and she ran skittering to the edge, leaping off into the grass like a kid jumping into a lake off a dock. I went inside and filled the teapot and clicked on the electric fireplace. The thermostat on the wall read 61 degrees.

When I was living in Grand Forks, I bought a house for next-to-nothing. It had cracked plaster walls that were covered with beige fake wood paneling and a dirt basement, the kind of place that I imagined a middle class family feeling pretty proud of having in the 1930’s. For me, it was the best of the cheap places I had looked at. My realtor was glad to be rid of me, I’m sure—he was old and long-suffering, there to open doors and stand around as I peered wide-eyed into closets and turned on faucets, a benevolent spirit. The great part of the place was its proximity to the downtown, something that people in Grand Forks seemingly find abhorrent given the growth far away from the city center. The fact that the Red River Runs through downtown and its tendency to flood might have something to do with it. Anyway, I was close enough in my house to bike downtown to the bar to meet my friends, for example. I could have an extra beer and the only thing I’d have to worry about would be going over the railroad tracks. The best part, though, was walking to the gas station three blocks away. One of the most badass parts of that part of the world is that every gas station sells Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Those doughnuts are so bad for you that they actually get into your stomach and suck up the nutrition present in other foods, but please. They were so good. Also, the gas station had International Delight flavored creamers for coffee. So, Sunday morning I’d walk over to the gas station with Bean. She was small enough at that point that I could tuck her into my jacket when I went in. I’d get a cream-filled chocolate frosted doughnut, a 16-ounce coffee with about three hazelnut creamers, and a paper. Then I’d go home, click on Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood, read the paper and imbibe in the gas station delicacies.

Today, there’s a gas station that is about four blocks away from my house. Unfortunately, that gas station is straight down the hill. The going down isn’t bad, but the going up, with a 20-30 degree hill while balancing a paper, a coffee, and some cheap ass plastic doughnut (there’re no Krispy Kremes here) is not my idea of a relaxing Sunday morning activity.

So I stuck around home this morning doughnutless, but I did turn on Sunday Morning. I love Charles Osgood. I don’t think of him as a grandfatherly type, and I don’t think he’s a sexy beast, but I would love to be his friend. It would be so cool to eat a Krispy Kreme with him (I bet he’d like a maple-flavored doughnut) and talk about artsy stuff. I feed Bean and pull out my bead collection, which has been housed in a red tool box. I bought several of those plastic boxes with all the little square organizational compartments, and it’s on like Donkey Kong. I learn about KT Tunstall on Sunday morning, and I separate the greens from the reds. I hear about the new electric cars from Tesla (priced at around the I’ll-never-be-able-to-afford-one range) and from one of the big American manufacturers (Chevy?) and separate the hemp cords from the elastic strings. When I am finished, I’m satisfied. My dad calls to see if I want to go for breakfast, but I want to stick around the house.

I wash dishes and open junk mail, shredding the parts with my name and recycling everything else. Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippet on MPR comes on, and her guest is a Chinese-American who talks about her life during the cultural revolution. As a schoolgirl, she was forced to denounce her most beloved teacher as a traitor to the party in front of the entire school, an act that has not left her and that the teacher never forgave her for.

By 10:45, it’s getting to the point where I need to shower. I did some hardcore housework the night before and wore the same shirt to bed, and I was feeling pretty grungy. I hopped in, shampooing and scrubbing away happily, applying a thick deep-conditioning cream to my hair.

This is a Sunday morning, one that's slow and quietly productive. It ends in a shower, as close to a celebration as this morning will get.

D-Day

It's cold this morning, and I jump into my car and turn on the heat. The heavy lids of night are just opening to reveal the watery, unsure light of the sun. I own the road, so the drive to the airport doesn't take any time at all. I am walking through the short term parking lot at just after 5 a.m. Airports are like a time warp. There's no way anyone should be awake at that time in the morning when even the birds haven't yet started singing, but as the sliding doors shhhh open, people are walking around, checking bags and chatting on cell phones. I don't see Damien, so I go upstairs and get a paper. The lighting is terrible; florescence surrounds me and I know that between my fear and getting up at 4 a.m., I must look pallid, perhaps even a little green. It occurs to me that airports are purposely set up to look the same everywhere to lull one into a false sense of security. I feel that the familiar foreignness is made to shock one into dull submission, like playing Mozart in a slaughterhouse, so no one freaks out and everything stays orderly. I feel really fucking disordered in the back of my mind, but the strangeness of the airport that I've been in dozens of times mixed with my concentration on the lead story in the newspaper keeps me quiet.

There he is. He's carrying a four-foot long box. There could be a bassoon or a javelin in there. I know it contains an M-16. I smile and wave and he goes to the check-in counter. He's got his hooded sweatshirt on, and I know which pair of boxers he's wearing beause I helped him pack last night, watched as he set aside his clothes for that morning's plane ride.

His parents show up when he's checking in and so do some of the guys from his station. I cling to my newspaper and smile as the round of introductions commence. Guys shake my hand and I squeeze hard.

All of a sudden, he's done at the counter and is at my side, saying goodbye to the guys. His parents and I follow him up the escalator to the security gate. There is a tissue in my pocket that I know I'll use, and it occurs to me that it's one of those fancy lotion-infused tissues, and those have piss-poor absorbency.

Damien is not messing around. He hugs and kisses me, tells me he loves me. I watch him hug his parents. I am the only one crying. My eyes leak all over the place, and I rub the damn useless tissue under my eyes and try to set my mind. I make a lame joke about checking his "weapon." He's walking away, handing the TSA security guard the baggie full of travel-sized toiletries and stripping off his shoes and sweatshirt. Then he's through. He waves. His mother gives me an awkward hug. His dad doesn't know what to make of me. They leave, and I sit.

I call him on his cell phone to tell him I'm staying until the plane leaves. We have minor conversation. I can't see him, which is probably good since I'm so fucking weak, so messed up about all of this. I want something. A grand gesture, perhaps; something that shows me how much he loves me, that he understands how sad this is that we're being tested this way so early in our relationship. I want him to say something profound, something I can run through my brain, drink like a cool glass of water, anything that will flush the bitter taste that has been squeezing the back of my throat for too long now.

Before he boards the plane, I see him. He waves. And then he is gone.