Sunday Circulars

The circular nature of life--its arcing tendency to bend towards what we once knew--seems sharpened by this crisp, almost-fall morning.  At this early hour,  in this comfortable room in my house, I feel as if I am looking back on my life, remembering my parents as younger, more vibrant people; stunned that my own now-grown children were once diapered and stumbling; smiling as I can almost see the wilder, less-formed version of who I am today.

And I recall last week's visit with my mom and stepdad. The hesitance I felt as I pulled into the parking space, knowing that I would lie to them.  Or at least not come completely clean.  My circle--or at least some earlier segments of my circle--now merging with theirs, these lifelines absorbing and swapping stories with seeming indiscretion.

Suddenly, I am the parent.  And they are the people I want to protect.

Which is why I have not yet mentioned to them the July 25th death of my dear friend Mary Kay  nor do I intend to share with them the loss of another fine friend--Andrea--whose premature death last week broke my heart again.  These are not the stories to feed to aged souls, I tell myself.  These are not facts that can be absorbed through the dementia-laced fog of a beloved mother whose daily living is now framed by nurses' visits and three-times-a-day low-sodium menu selections.

There, in the parking lot in front of a building filled with people whose edges are fuzzying, then, I make my peace with my sins of omission.  And I know somehow, that--many years ago, when my own days were played out with young friends running through grass-filled fields--my parents made a similar peace with their decision not to tell me everything.

Such are the demands of living these concentric circles of our lives.