It’s a quarter to four in the morning and my head is whirling with private matters I won’t write about, so my blog has been empty while my heart has been full.
Big shifts are happening: children finishing their school years and entering into the wider world of high school. My husband and I rethinking our priorities about where and what we call home. A couple of “wow” moments – and not the good “wow” – to talk through with two of my dear ones. A sudden death of one of the prominent loved patriarchs in the family. The impossible small talk that happens at a wake. The sour milk that came out of the latte machine at the funeral home that left me on the cool bathroom floor for hours tonight instead of visiting with my brother and sister-in-law and the kids. We had gone to the museum of nature the day before. And in my food poisoned addled mind I kept seeing images of tectonic plates shifting, caused earthquakes, volcanos, tsunamis…my nephew sitting at the interactive table like a mad scientist, pressing buttons vigorously, making things erupt and explode…
Was it the milk? Or is this my body creating a metaphor for my emotional state? Honestly. Is this necessary?
But after a while, the storm settles and…I feel…what is that warmth…? It’s that deep gratefulness that the purge is over. Sure. The satisfying smooth wonder of a settled stomach. That first full breath with no abdominal cramps. The freshly washed face and the hope in brushing the teeth. The baptism of cold clean water down the ravaged throat. I am born again.
Forgiveness.
Forgiveness extended to me.
Forgiveness I offer to others.
I’m not necessarily understood, but the upset is over and I’m able to truly say “oh well”.
Everything is possible again.
Ottawa is as hot as a sauna. I stand with my manicured toes in an outdoor pool shaped like a duck and listen to my nieces and nephew squeal with delight over sprays of water. My brother is keeping a watchful eye on the charcoal grilled steaks as thick as the wood rail on his deck. My sister-in-law brings me an icy drink with a frilly frond of mint from her garden. The neighbour’s smoke tree puffs its plummy plumes generously over the fence. This is lovely.
Earlier, my nephew, a bit more than two, shy with me still, allowed me to be “the tow truck” for a whole half an hour. When some music came on, I tried to start a dance party with the girls and did three whole prancy circles around the house and they left me high and dry, first watching me, cock-eyed, and then completely ignoring weirdo Zia.
Okay.
That’s okay. I got to be “the tow truck”, I’m still riding that high. the girls do let me in on their game with strange tiny plastic rubber figurines of trash items though…”oh, don’t drink that, Zia Cia, that’s ROTTEN milk!” 
My favourite conversation I had today was with my Zio Gaetano. I asked him about his vegetable garden at the farm. The zucchinis and onions and beans. I love the idea of him out there trimming back the tomato plants while Zia scolds him for being in the sun too long. Oh I understand the satisfaction of making things grow, the euphoria that comes from digging in the dirt, the righteousness of a weeded bed.
My brother has been picking me up and driving me around. He’s a gracious man, great with hospitality, good humoured, one to vote for peace. He’s a loving Dad who doesn’t know I heard him do “all the voices” at story time last night, much to my amusement. He’s a devoted husband who chose well. He’s a man of integrity who has built a solid career and a stable good life. I tell him, while driving through a field of corn, “I”m glad you’re here.” And he says, “Yeah, it’s kind of good that I live in Ottawa because then you keep in touch wth the Italian family.”
“Yeah, but I mean it in a bigger sense. I’m glad you’re here. In my life. Alive. The youngest of us, I’m glad you were born. If it was just Corralee and me it would be so different, the whole family would be so different. The joy you give us all.”
He says a quiet, “thanks,” and keeps driving his sassy black car through a section he calls the S road. It curves and it curves and it curves, but it always brings us home.
