This time, last year. August, to be exact. When I thought the story would be about tackling our first ever camping trip as a family of four. A trip where after one night with Sonny scared of the dark and screaming I thought I might die. Only two things saved me: a nap in the hammock with Sonny cradled in my arms and my parents showing up and taking Sonny home with them so the older boys and I (and the rest of the campground) could have a restful nights sleep.

One year later, I’ve forgotten the hardships — the fact that we almost didn’t even get the camping spot we reserved months ahead of time due to faulty bookkeeping on the campgrounds part, or the schlepping of all the stuff that camping entails — the pre-made meals, the lanterns, the activity books, the headlamps… practicing setting up a tent that still had the price tag on it from years ago — the daytime downpour that resulted in a bunch of naked boys running amuck in a tent I tried my best to keep clean. Stuff that seemed so significant at the time.

And now, one year later, all I see is that my dad was there. I wonder if his body knew things we did not. I look at that picture of him and am heartbroken that photos are the only way I can see him now. I weave between gratitude for what was and brokenheartedness for what is.

I didn’t come here today to reminisce on my dad. I have so many intentions to spend more time here writing, sharing, remembering, sorting, purging — but the motivation to share here never seems to quite match up with the time I have to actually be here. Even as I write this Sonny is by my side shooting a nerf gun with no bullets and each time he prepares to pull the trigger I envision my thought being launched out of the gun, dissipating into thin air. Life as a single mom is like that; constantly trying to grab hold onto nothing, forever reminded that I’m footloose, and ping ponging between the futile attempts to find grounding and the complete surrender in knowing we live in a groundless world.

It feels all over the place — my thoughts, my writing — and yet it’s all connected and all I have.