Keeping On

Frigid in the big city today. Dashed out just in time to make a noon yoga class not quite in the neighborhood but one neighborhood over. I wore: yoga pants with snow pants over them, about three or four layers on top (yoga top, thin sweater, then fleece), down coat, hat, scarf, gloves. Oh and I took a car service there  because I needed to get there within three or four minutes. On the way back, though, I took the bus, and I was cold while waiting, even through all those layers.

I'm glad I got out and went to class, though, because I know my resolve would have weakened once the afternoon wore on into darkness. Now I can in good conscience stay in and putter around for the rest of the day.

It has been a strange time. I miss my father terribly, and the weight of grief is sometimes hard to bear. But sometimes it eases a little and I can remember happy times with him. Or start to feel some acceptance.

There is lots to be happy about and to enjoy, still. Last night my sister and I babysat, at her place, for my little three-year-old greatnephew while his parents, my niece and her husband, went out. My niece and her family were living in Europe, where my greatnephew was born, until just recently, and it is great to have them back in the States--not right in New York but not far, in a city only two hours away. So they all came up for the weekend, and in the afternoon yesterday, I went over to my sister's so that the three of us could have our own party (as we told my little nephew, A.) The party included little hot dogs in pastry (more popularly known as "pigs in blankets"), ice cream sandwiches, and lots of playing with A.'s new toy, a New York City bus with doors that open, purchased that very day at the Transit Museum. When it was time to go to bed, A. insisted that I join him and my sister in the big bed while my sister read him a story. When the story was finished, A. instructed my sister, "You turn the light out." She said, of course, yes, I'm turning the light out. Then he turned to me and said, "Titi, you stay here." (I am "Titi" because Puerto Rico is part of his mother's family background--I have always been "Titi" to her and now, to him as well.)

So we turned out the light and lay there in the dark with the most adorable three-year-old in the world, waiting for him to drift away into sweet three-year-old sleep.

It was a nice evening.