10.5.2022

April 1, 2002

You know how much I like horses and how much I love to ride them, right? Well, here's what I'm going to do. I'm pretty sure I'm going to lease Pam. She's the pretty paint horse I take lessons on. And when I do, I'll come to the barn when I want and ride her and maybe do some trails. And still take lessons. So here is the other plan. You already know (I think you know) that I want to be a hunter jumper. So Nancy (my  riding instructor) will teach me hunters (I did 12" jumps at Betty's barn) and so when I'm 15, 16, 17 (in that range), I will be able to come with my own horse and set up jumps and go! I think it sounds like a pretty good plan, so hope for me that it will work!

–journal entry written by eleven-year-old me

A whole summer has passed since I last wrote to you. I seem to seethe in the sweaty months of June, July, and August, skipping through the hot triangle like a hapless stone skating ripples atop still water. Now that autumn is here, I feel that I'm sprouting to life once again.

Throughout the last season I'd written nearly six entries, never able to finish one or weave a theme throughout the text like I usually do. The last I tried was mid-August, when the dreaded date came that claimed you'd been gone from physical form for fourteen years.

On the 14th, I went to your grave to visit the grass that tops the once hollow hole you were placed into; the filled space I sit and stare and speak aloud into the hushed surrounding air, with willows to my left and a stagnant lake out ahead, decorated with a pretty pair of white swimming swans. Your headstone was covered with thick weeds that grew horizontal and flat like spider fingers, enabling it to escape the maintenance of tractors and weed whackers and completely cover your bronzed name. Kneeling down in the soggy sod, I plied your plaque free, pulling the entangled green while crying with each yank, mad at the ground because it seemed like even the earth itself had turned lily-livered, into a sneaky creeping coward I needed to tear apart. I’d caught it trying to cover the truth: that you were real and you lived.

There are no reminders anymore. Not like in the beginning phases of your death, when I could still open your top dresser drawer and remember you in the treasured tokens you kept, like our baby hospital tags, heirloom jewelry and the weathered memorial card from Grandma Jenny's funeral.

I have pictures of you, hanging upstairs in the kids' loft. Or one on my bathroom mirror, when you were eighteen standing in a black and faded pink striped bandeau bikini, smiling in the Bahamas water and sun, holding a starfish as big as your tiny torso. And each morning when I do Marion's hair at my vanity, she points to the picture, making conversation around the young woman in it, either saying how pretty "mommy's mommy" is, or saying that she loves you, or asks where you are.

And as I'm topsy-tailing her coiled curls, managing within my fingers multiple small elastics and hairspray and a little brush I use to smooth the style into place, I try to explain to my little girl that my mommy died, but I still love her very much.

When I'd tell Everett you were in the sky and in the wind and trees and all around us, I swear to God he understood it, even at three years old. He still does. He grasps the concept of believing in what we cannot see, better than me sometimes, because his imagination has created no limitations. You are real to him, just as Santa Clause.

These conversations about you with my kids are on their own doing. You are not a topic I push because I don't want to hurt them. And I don't want to create premature confusion or imprint my beliefs of the afterlife. But they're curious and they're my children and you are my mother and they love you.

They love you.

Stephanie got married a few weekends ago. My best friend growing up, in part because her mother Janice was your best friend. And all week leading up to her wedding, I would have these vivid virtual snapshots, imagining her venue and dress and everyone dancing, and then I'd see you, pretending what it would feel like to have my mother there, a place you'd rightly be, dressed as your reputation would precede: fancy and sharp–the beautiful hot blonde who could turn heads even at a Friday night football game.

I'd see you watching me laugh with my friends, trying to feel your pride trickle out like the twist of a wet sponge, as you watched your daughter from afar, knowing she was a successful mother to three happy children whom were loved to the brim.

On Steph’s big day, while eating posh mashed potatoes and stuffed chicken, I hadn't yet thought about your absence. But then a local hometown woman came to the table where I sat with my girlfriends and their spouses, asking who we all were, and when it was my turn to answer, I gave my maiden name.

"Ohhhhh I remember your mother," she said while nodding her head affirmatively.

"You do? Aw that's so sweet," I politely responded with a smile. I was drawn to her outward personality, magnetic to her silver dress and her connection to you. Tell me more my insides were begging. And somehow my inner pleas were heard or honestly, I'd drank so many swigs of cinnamon whiskey before the ceremony even began, that maybe I blurted out, "Tell me!"

I'd like to think I remained composed but I can't be sure.

She began the short story with enthusiasm in her face and pretty ringed fingers speaking along to the rhythm of her words, as if she were setting a plot for folktale to giddy kids cuddled around a campfire. When I heard Wal-Mart my mind immediately turned on itself and thought this can't be about Mom. Because I never remember you going into that store.

But here she was, in a Wal-Mart, very overdressed because she'd come from somewhere else prior. And then she ran into you. I guess you stopped for a quick talk and you told her how good she looked and that you had the same outfit.

And suddenly it seemed I'd caught you, hiding in a memory I’d never known. Olly olly oxen free! Come out from where you’ve been–I found you!

Because sometimes it still truly feels like you’re just hiding in some obscure place that I cannot reach or find. And it’s my fault for not looking hard enough. And you send me signs through feathers at my feet and birds aligned in flight, dropping clues to tell me you’re real and here. But where? Where do I tell my children to look? How can I propel myself to you and into your arms that are now bones below the spiteful ground?

It felt like if I could just visualize this woman’s words hard enough, I'd be able to swim through the liquid ether that separates you and I and quickly snatch you in that shopping aisle, as quickly as a kidnapper. I’d be a momnapper. I'd save you from heading toward the dimension of days and months and years that told your cells to turn on themselves, and veer you off the deathly course that took your life.

As soon as she cutely wrapped up her words, I felt like she'd given me a gift that was now cradled in my hands. When she walked away, my eyes spilled out with water. The tears just appeared. Quickly looking to my left, I grasped Kati, I need air please come. She followed and so did sweet Kyarstin and Jessie remained and explained to Chris what had happened. I saw him come from across the room as I was walking out with such panic in his eyes, I can't fathom what he thought happened. I don't know how he even managed to see. Must've had hawk eyes on me. And Jessie swiftly downloaded it all, between overhearing the woman and my tears and my rush to exit. I don't know what she told Chris but he didn't have to ask questions later; I had a fellow sister able to do my talking.

I welcomed deep breaths outside as if the cool night air were a needed inhaler and dried my eyes with shaky hands and a paper napkin, paranoid my lash glue would somehow disintegrate and I'd have faux mink strands sticking out at odd directions.

She should fucking be here. She should be here Kati.  Trying to tell my best friend how much it can still hurt so deep and unexpectedly, while hoping to God she never understands.

It only took a minute, but I released something that'd been trapped within my mind and body all week, a little dormant monster rattling its cage, waiting to tempt my strength at an opportune moment.

I was thankful for the woman, thankful for the reminder that you were indeed once alive and walking this planet amongst people who are still here to tell the tale of Jenifer Norris.

Because after fourteen years, it’s hard to remember you were ever real.

Meghan's wedding was three weeks prior. It was so beautifully charming and so Meghan, the first friend I made in third grade. Her venue of backdrop woods and guest cabins and a log chapel with vaulted ceilings that she'd decorated with hanging wildflowers and candles, made for a fairyland weekend with friends and tipsy too loud laughs and love.

She walked down the aisle to Cowboy Take Me Away by The Dixie Chicks and I couldn't stop crying when the song began and our bride was hidden behind the oak entry doors, patiently awaiting her timed entrance. Stephanie was beside me, choking back tears too. All the bridesmaids were. And then came Meghan, walking towards her towering, sweet cowboy Paul, with an arm linked around her father's.

Speaking of, I should tell you, after whiskey gave me loads of gumption, I let him know that my mother always thought you were so good-looking! He smiled and blushed and swatted his hand in a friendly manner, shaking the compliment off as it were a fly, but I know he enjoyed it.

And, well, it's not like I can embarrass you.

I have good friends. The best friends. Girls that knew you. Girls that know who I am. Girls that are getting married and becoming mothers and entering a phase that at times, seems to have lost its sparkle for me.

Constantly running a full household and caring for its inhabitants does not fulfill me anymore. I thought for awhile that maybe it was just Forrest. I know that sounds awful but he has sucked the life out of me, especially within the past six or so months. Not just because he's the third, but he requires attention that I cannot always give. And therefore protests in loud off-key notes and noises that actually make my ears reverberate to the point where I can feel vibration. It can be so consistent and constant, even Marion will cover her ears and say with spirited spunk, "Ughh Forrest!"

He's my hardest, without question. He is needy and whiney and unable to play independently in his safe room like his brother and sister were at this age. The moment I put the baby gate up in his doorway, he screams. Melts down. Stands at the plastic barrier with his stubby chubby tree trunk legs and cries for his mother, who just needs to hang bathroom towels and rinse the tub after morning baths.

I feel guilty for complaining about my youngest because I don't want to sound like I cannot handle three children. Because I can and I am and I know I'm doing a good job, all the while maintaining a healthy relationship with Chris and my girlfriends and myself.

But I wouldn't have another baby if someone paid me.

Chris had his vasectomy a few months ago and I cannot believe how long it took me to decide on whether or not to have one more baby. And if Forrest ever becomes easy and I start to wonder about a fourth, it's non-negotiable. I followed the guidance I was given, from Dr. Jaffe and long conversations with my husband and within the quiet thinking nights I sat alone down by my chicken coop, asking for a sign to tell me what to do. And then the geese came.

When I pick up Jessie's newest doll baby, Odette, I can feel my insides crumple with desire as I remember birth and the soft days of postpartum and the gentle way I care for myself and a new life. But the responsibility of that additional life quickly covers my yearnings like a heavy magic cloak that reveals reality and I know I won't ever choose to carry life in my belly again.

I feel like my life is changing. I am changing. My focus is not on babies anymore. I handed in my initiation papers the day Forrest turned one at the end of summer; my newborn years are all behind me. The dirty days of onesies and formula and sleep training an infant are over. It's freeing to feel like I can move forward with my life and not have pregnancy and a baby's first year and all that it entails, looming over my head.

Your children do not expire when they turn four, the way the current culture makes it out to be. How I wish I could preserve Marion's little voice or the way Forrest sits on my hip or Everett's proud toothless smile. But there are other things to look forward to as my family grows in age, not size. Like going to dinner, all together, without plastic toys and bottles and having to ask for your food to come as quickly as possible. And truly getting to know your kids as they grow into themselves. Or more room within my life to water my flowering self with hobbies and perhaps passions, like using my doula certification and riding horses.

I'm building a little community at the barn, the same as when I began yoga at sixteen and found like-minded people who genuinely enjoyed kale and stretching in a one hundred degree room. I can tell my friends how much I love riding, but the "barn girls" understand how quickly you can become a horse-a-holic if bitten by the bug.

I feel silly telling you an animal is responsible for the off-course winds within me–bringing new people and purpose and joy and curing a common bond with my daughter, but unlike a dog or cat or chickens, horses require time and skill and knowledge that will take me years and years to learn. But to think of one day being educated enough to own my own, gives me something to look forward to when the kids are older. There is no longer an empty gap to fill with a fourth baby.

My time at the barn is an investment into the version of myself that I imagine will be real one day–a horsewoman who can properly ride and care for her boarded companion and help Marion rise up into the spritely rider she's already becoming.

Riding makes me feel like I'm returning to a small part of myself–literally, to the girl who still had you and her whole youth ahead of her, journaling about what it would be like to lease and set up jumps and fly free. I feel as if I'm honoring that part of my girlhood, fulfilling the plan I'd once so confidently made.

I don't know how my world changed from barn boots to cheer shoes. But I'll be damned if money or my kids or thinking thirty is too old to get back in the saddle is going to stop me again. Grandma started riding when she was fifty, and at seventy-three, she's still trotting along like a boss.

I was so unsure of things the last time we talked in late spring. But while I had my head on pause throughout the summer, waiting for the hot bright months to pass, tides changed in such slow progression, I hadn't realized the water letting out to sea. I just kept going to my weekly lesson and became more sure that those beautiful creatures were responsible for the shifts within my psyche, like silent tectonic plates permanently rearranging priorities and what I want for my foreseeable future.

I'm happy with where I'm at. I turned thirty-one and feel like I've actually stepped into this third decade, not merely saying, "Oh I'm thirty!" because that somehow still sounded hip and cute. I am aware that I'm aging. I'm aware of other women around me aging, something that cannot be conceived when you're seventeen.

If I were you, I'd only had seven more healthy years before being told I wouldn't watch my children blow out another birthday cake. That’s part of the reason why I celebrate what’s to come as they age, because it was a privilege you were denied to witness when it came to us kids.

Marion is the same age Tatum was when you were diagnosed, a pain that feels so ugly to think for even a second–for both you and my baby sister–I need to quickly excavate the thought like it’s plunged rotting hair that sticks in a shower drain, vile and dripping in disgust.

I cannot see beyond my thirties; and I know it's because you never made it past them.

But I plan to spend this span of years doing what I love with who I love: living up on our wooded hill with our children and the dependable promise of a healthy tomorrow.

And it's okay if mothering is not my only identity anymore. I can be more. I am more. And perhaps you'd have been more, had you gotten the chance.

So I'm taking mine.

Cowboy take me away. Fly this girl as high as you can into the wild blue.