The Westra World

“Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit. A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all's right with the world.”

~Ada Louis Huxtable

























By all accounts I know I should be drunk... with summer.


I know I am in a bubble. First we have a big move for my parents planned for the end of this week, into their new apartment. After we get them settled for a few days, my brother and his wife and their two girls are coming for a visit the following week.

So much to do, to look forward to, to enjoy. It keeps us all in the bubble. As if by our activity, we can keep everything we cherish within our collective grasp.  We're afraid to sit still, to stop moving, to get off the ride.

While the boys went with their father to a baseball game, I worked in the yard yesterday.  I started with just pulling some stray grass growing amongst the flower beds.  With the soil saturated from all the recent rains, they slid out easily in large clumps.  The steady monotonous work was soothing. I watched my fingernails fill with dirt and remnants of grass. My fingers were caked with clay. I pulled and I pulled.

Soon, all that was left  were the thistles.  Maybe its my frame of mind, my inability to leave the safety of my bubble, but I found myself barehanded, tackling those thorny weeds.  I tugged and pulled at their spindly base, wincing at the prick on my fingers when coming in contact with the thorny stems.  Yet, I never once moved to get my gardening gloves.  I sat with a tweezer last night, surveying the wounds and slivers covering my hands.  They are battle scars and a badge of honor, that serve as reminders of the heavy burden I carry.

For all of the beauty of my blooms and blossoms, simply can't take away the worry in my mother's face. Or my sleepless, restless nights.  Or the change in my Dad's words, his appearance, his growing weakness.

Our bubble is showing signs of weakening.  I tread lightly, holding my breath, knowing the bubble will one day burst.  The thorns and the thistle will take over, no matter how many times I bravely reach to yank them from the ground.