there's so much here

Two weeks ago I woke up for the second day of school—I’m teaching in a new grade with a new team and a new curriculum. The first day was a blur and somewhere in the middling night after, I turned from my right to my left. There was pain but I was asleep and I barely noticed it.

Yet in the morning, in the gray of my alarm, there was so much pain. I drove to work unable to turn my head. I gripped the wheel and hoped. Each movement made me almost  dizzy with a searing heat that seized my neck and back. 

By the time the substitute came to my classroom just before lunch, I was so gripped by pain that my principal had to drive me home. I would be immobile for the next five days, swapping ice pack out for ice pack on continual repeat. Sleeping on my back, not really asleep. 

I’ve had neck pain for many years; but this was the worst it has ever been.  I messaged my friends who also know — they sent me exercises for when I regained some mobility. My mother texted me at pre-set intervals to tell me when I could take more pain medication. My partner gave me every pillow in the house including his. 

I lay on my back for hours, entirely still, and I was reminded of the agony and endlessness of being in the intensive care unit three years ago. I had to lay on my back, entirely still then too. It seems endless when you’re in it.



The moment school returns here, fall does too. The trees are almost entirely yellow and the mornings are cold—five or six degrees—but it can still be almost twenty degrees in the afternoon. If I don’t let myself think about what fall heralds, I can see how beautiful it all is. 

I walked with my friend beside the river and every second or two she stopped to show her two-year-old some other ordinary wonder. The crunch of a poplar leaf. The thunk of a stone in the river. The crumble of a perfect chocolate cake. The rumble of the passing train. My friend and I stand on a grass patch beside a bench because the two- year-old likes to climb on the bench — this too is a moment of discovery. We watch her climb, marvel at the bench's worn, wooden planks. We talk about how a moment ago the two-year-old was a two-month-old. We talk about how three years ago. We talk about how? 

Above us -- the same blue my friend and I sat under after Kurtis died. She and I have sat under so many blues together. That lipless sky. 



In the middle of my second week back at school, I receive an email from my publisher.  “It’s live!” the email reads. I was on the last ten minutes of my prep at school, which is where I first see the cover reveal for Here After, which LitHub published. I scroll down and see the cover, see the words I wrote about its design. 

"I hope you’re enjoying this exciting moment," my agent wrote to me.

.... but I was listening for his whoop. I was listening for the sound of his smile when he was really, really excited for something. I was waiting for him to call me. 



I am hosting my mother’s birthday this weekend. My whole life my mother has celebrated occasions with impeccably designed tables — every detail thought of. I spend weeks searching for brass candle holders and I almost squeal out loud when I discover perfectly soft linen napkins on sale. I trial-run the table, setting out each element, making sure it looks just right. I am so excited about it that I cannot resist showing my mother the individual parts (these bowls! these chargers!) beforehand. 

I’ve never been good about things like that. I used to tell Kurtis about the gifts I had gotten him before the occasion too. I don't know how to hold all of it. I don't know how he can be gone when there is so much here.



In my new classroom, I can't find anything that I need. It’s new to me, and I am new to it. The pens aren’t in the same place. They can’t be. Every period I feel like I am chasing my own tail, slightly out of rhythm. Because of my neck, which proved to be an acute subluxation, I missed the first week of school so I am behind on names, too, mixing them up, reaching for them and finding nothing there, mispronouncing. My students are so graceful: they make charming name tags to help me learn. They offer their own pens when I still can’t find mine. They tell me their stories and I get to pause, forget about the pens! and listen to their wonders. 



A few days before my mother’s birthday party, she undergoes a medical procedure. It is not a small one and it was ordered in haste, in reaction to a scan that revealed something unexpected and threatening. When I come visit her after she returns home from the hospital, I look at her, pale and weary and tell her that she must be absolutely knackered. 

My neck is healing, but very slowly, so we both sit and I tell her about the rush and whirl of teaching. My brain feels overstuffed with things to think about, new programs to write, new routines to teach, new ways to design and create a learning space for a new level of students. My mum listens quietly as I pour all of it out for her. I show her the new graphic design program I’m learning so that the programs I’m designing for students have a fresher look. It’s all a lot of work, too much — many hours at home, at night—but there’s always been something for me in creation. Like the crunch of the leaves beneath my shoes. 

I drove home from my parent’s house late -- the moon was crescent and gold. Richly large. Headlights were their own suns. Sometimes I feel the most hungry when I'm completely full. 

---

… I wrote a book.

Cover Design by Anna Morrison

HERE AFTER publishes March 5, 2024. You can preorder here, if you are American and here, if you are Canadian.

I am so honoured to share HERE AFTER with you all.

If you’d like to receive updates about the book and these occasional letter-missives please feel free to stay subscribed or to subscribe.