It’s been a pretty good few days in my world. Logan, Son #1, moved back to Illinois after almost nine years in Michigan. Now he and Cass are in a tidy three-hour line; he is the halfway point. I foresee birthday lunches and just-because visits instead of twice-or-thrice-yearly visits. He and Cass can overlap lives. My world is cozier.
If you know me on social media, you know the auditorium is progressing at a heartening rate. I no longer feel like I’m speaking fantasy when I say we will have our musical in that space next month. Now, I really believe it will happen. I printed tickets and posters today, so NO DELAYS! Excuse me while I knock on some wood. In a matter of days, I will be able to get my hands on the light board (my electronic love) and happily make my way up this steep learning curve. Seeing the stacks of stage lights waiting for installation is like Christmas! Actually, it might be better than Christmas; nobody in my family has covid.
All good. In fact, so good that my excitement must show. Someone who’s known me all my life commented on Facebook that it was wonderful to see me excited. I responded that it’s kind of nice to feel excited.
Her comment may seem innocuous, but she is also a Mom Who Knows; she knows the muted emotions, the lack of joy, the complete absence of excitement of life After.
I am excited. I’m thrilled to have both Logan and Cass within easy visiting distance. My kids are the best things I’ve ever done. I will never take their proximity for granted. Now I can easily see both of them in one day, at their homes. And that auditorium? I still can’t believe it’s happening. I wander through several times each day. The site manager calls me by name now, although I did enjoy the “young lady” and “kiddo” monikers while they lasted. I meet each group of subcontractors and stand googly-eyed at their skill and progress. My favorite vantage point is the south spotlight room. I can stand in that room, lean on the window ledge, and just watch without being in anyone’s way. My auditorium excursions are fun, fascinating, and frequent.
All good.
Mostly.
Tonight, I took a friend through the space. We checked out the various lights, talked about the different systems and setups, dropped f-bombs, laughed about some peculiar paint choices, and reveled in the possibilities of this gift. He knows and loves “my side” of productions, so it was an especially fun walk-through. Still good.
And when I got home, I sent him a message I can’t send to many. A few, but not many. Can’t you picture Coop walking through the auditorium with his hands in his pockets, taking it all in? Probably sounds goofy. I think he would calmly and quietly love all this. He knew Cooper. They were pals, with a healthy dose of hero worship on Coop’s part. My friend replied that he’d thought the same thing, and that Coop would have already found a discrete spot to autograph on the catwalk. I cried as we messaged back and forth and I’m crying now.
I know, I know—I just talked about the good things happening. Those good things are SO good and so real, but they aren’t complete. At this point in the journey—two days short of two and a half years—I can’t even imagine my life feeling complete. Having Logan and Cass both close to home is great—it really is—but Coop should be here somewhere. Watching the auditorium come together feels like a dream, but a bittersweet dream. Coop should be helping me in the next weeks. Would be helping me, but . . .
That’s what it’s like, this unrequested life.
This tangle of emotions feels impossible to explain, a perpetual contradiction of the heart. What I’m learning is that some level of happiness and excitement and joy can (must) coexist with the heartache that is such a part of me. It’s up to me to figure out how to keep the peace between those disparate, sometimes-warring, emotions.
There’s a book out there by another suicide-survivor mom entitled I’ll Write Your Name on Every Beach. Maybe I’ll title mine I’ll Sign Your Name at Every Stage. Quietly. Discretely. Thoroughly.
Woods Writes 