January Sunrise

I step from the shower on this Monday morning, the sky still pitch dark and the furnace heaving continuously since the snow came in last night.  Another storm on top of last week’s that partially melted and then turned to ice. I begin to run through the list of what I need to get done in the week ahead and am grateful there is snow again because, on the ice, George slips so easily and now with a new blanket of snow he’ll have better traction.  George is our dog, and I worry about him about as much as I worry about all the humans who are in my life, especially — but not only — our two children, grown and on their own; long gone from my watchful gaze but never from my mind that too often turns to rapid thoughts.  They’re responsible. Educated.  Employed.  But still I worry about whether they’ll get to and from their destinations safely because, regardless of how responsible of drivers they’ve proven to be they’re still out there with all the other kooks on the road who don’t have as much to lose. My parents used to call them kooks and that’s all they ever needed to say to sum up their thoughts. I don’t like to judge, really I don’t. But I’ve gone further, even so far to say — to those I assume are paying attention — that those kooks who pull up to you at a stoplight, looking like the car is on its last ride, with the radio blaring, or the argument with their passengers in full swing, have nothing to lose — and that’s scary.  And then my mind shifts to how much is scary in the world today: the polarization of views, the ugly that’s been uncovered and given voice, the constant vitriol from all corners of society.  My phone pings, our daughter is at work safely. The roads weren’t too bad.  Good traction.  

I dry myself, fold the towel over the edge of the tub and take a large swallow from my mug of coffee on the vanity and, as I do every morning, intermittently eat a bowl of egg whites as I apply make-up, dry my hair and take a vitamin C and baby aspirin.  I try to remember if I took the multi-vitamin the night before and wonder, not for the first time, if it it’s doing me more harm than good.  What’s in it anyway?  I’m eating so much healthier now and with great discipline have shed nearly thirty pounds in the last two years to get to the healthiest weight of my adult life. I still don’t see myself as others do and sometimes don’t know how to receive the compliments.  The worst was when the woman from the Legal department stepped on the elevator with me and told me how great I looked and asked what I was doing, and I told her I was counting points and then said, stupidly, either that or I have cancer and I just don’t know it yet.  We both laughed and then she said, no, you’d know – when my husband got cancer, he certainly wasn’t trying to lose weight and it didn’t even take a year.  She stopped me before I could manage the apology and then said not to worry; it was all fine and she was remarried now and really loved her (current) husband and that it really wasn’t something she thought about much and it was okay that her (first) husband was dead.  

I worry a lot about cancer since my mom died fourteen years ago from pancreatic.  Truthfully, I’ve worried about cancer since the moment I became a mother, nearly twenty-six years ago; afraid that my beautiful daughter would grow up without me and then who would teach her how to maneuver all the pathways? No one could do it like me.  She’s a nurse now on an oncology unit and by year’s end will be a pediatric NP.  She’s eager to focus her care on children though today she gracefully shepherds her patients to the next life or deals deftly with their needs in this one as they strive for just one more day.  Or month.  And now I’m greedy.  We’ve seen both our children into adulthood and they have been in love and, for our daughter, there is marriage on the horizon and perhaps grandchildren, and I want to be around to help them – my children’s children – with the way forward.  I don’t want to miss it to cancer or a car accident from one of those kooks on the road.  Or maybe I’ve worried about dying of cancer since I learned the word some fifty odd years ago.  But my conversation with the woman from Legal was over a year ago and she doesn’t work there anymore and these days I’m just grateful I have such an amazing job that stresses me out and requires more of my brain power than I thought possible to use each day. It’s always a delicate interplay there; you need to lean in as the saying goes, but not overstep, and I want my staff to know how much I appreciate them, but I have so much to accomplish on my own that sometimes I just wish I could leave the office and work from home, and be with George, because I’d get so much more accomplished.  And I wouldn’t worry about him missing me or being alone too long.   I work well alone.  At times it’s hard to concentrate with so many others around me.  Every day I use the Journalism degree conferred nearly thirty-five years ago, but even with all the facts that I could stack up to account for and back up my life, sometimes I feel I’ve ended up in foreign territory; interpreting and advocating public health policy.  It really didn’t come naturally, but others think I was born for the role, so every day I forge ahead and make our case and explain to those we elected and put in these roles why we need what we need, and how it will help us attain our goals to, in turn, help others achieve theirs.  And, of course, I worry about making sure I’m doing what I need to do to keep my staff, my assistant, my colleagues, and my boss happy.  But they all have their own private lists and goals and challenges. No one is looking at or thinking about anyone else really.  

I stare ahead and take another sip of coffee and try to put out of my mind all that is in front of me on this Monday morning. And that’s when I see it, reflected in the mirror from the window over the tub: the sunrise, just breaking above the horizon. It’s a brilliant gold, then a shade of soft pink that blends seamlessly into the steel, cold blue.  I grab my phone and climb into the bathtub and snap several shots, trying to capture the beauty of what I’m seeing on this quiet January morning. I check. The image on the camera didn’t capture it at all but I think I know myself well enough to know I’ll show the shot to a few friends and say look how beautiful the sunrise was this morning.  And they’ll nod or say something nice or that they saw it, too.  And then I think of my dad who used to take hundreds of photos of sunrises, or sunsets, and how, during those preciously held evenings that happened just a few times a year as we were growing up —us seven children of the fifties and sixties — we’d gather to watch the Kodachrome slides projected on the old screen set up in the living room, and we’d moan and lament when he loaded in a cartridge of sunrises, or sunsets, because, after all, what was the difference?  We wanted to see people! Ourselves – grinning and goofing and acting like kooks!  We wanted to see the moment that someone was blowing out their candles, the outfits on each of us that were out of date, or treasured memories of a time slipping out of focus.  People pictures! we’d plead.  And so, he’d oblige and put away the sunrises, or sunsets.  

I gaze out the window. I realize now that he, too, had been trying to capture something that would never submit itself to exposure.  Only memory.  I delete the photos and think of dad.

I’d like to be able to tell him what I realized this morning and how much I appreciate his sunset photos.  But he’s old and time has played us all.

The slides and photographs have been parsed to my siblings who I don’t have a chance to see often.  We’re in touch; but not regularly.  It’s not out of anger or division though, at times, there’s been a bit of both.  It’s just the way our lives have gone.  We all have our own to-do lists, our own responsibilities and families and pets and friends who need us in ways we have never admitted to needing each other.  

And though it’s still early in the morning, it’s far too late to let dad know I understand why he didn’t want any people in those photos.  He was trying to capture something of his own, of himself, to hold on to when the day’s demands set in.  

But I can’t think more about it now.  At ninety-one his memory has left him.  And I’m just trying to remember all that is in front of me.  

© 2019