Field Note No. 4

Hot Coffee

I have ventured back into civilization.

It has been one full year since my last haircut. This is not a style choice. This is historical evidence.

My ponytail has been through things. It has seen sleepless nights. It has absorbed emotions. There is a strong possibility there is still baby spit up in it.

A souvenir from a darker time.

Approximately Tuesday.

They offer me coffee.

It is hot.

I do not gulp it like a fugitive. I sip. Slowly. Like a woman who is not hiding from tiny people.

She runs her fingers through my hair and I see it in her eyes.  Questions. Concerns. Possibly fear.

She asks, “How are you?”

And for once, I answer like a person, not a snack distributor.

My 8-year-old is past the sticky era. A civilized creature now. Uses napkins. Has opinions. Mildly feral but trainable.

The baby is 3 months old.

Portable. Soft. Mostly a loaf of bread with feelings.

So here I sit. No one touching me. No one yelling “MOM WATCH THIS” while doing something that is definitely not watch worthy.

Just scalp massage. Adult conversation. The gentle lie that I am put together.

The documentary resumes.

But I have good hair and caffeine in my bloodstream.

So really, I’m thriving.