One queen-sized
bed, one foldout couch, one double-sized bed, one futon, and one king-sized
bed. These are places where I rested my head on a recent visit to hometown
Chicago.
My initial motivation in accepting invitations from five dear ones was
to save hotel fees. And, while it might have been easier to settle into just one
of the proffered rooms, and not have to schlep luggage from car trunk to car
trunk, each visit brought its own reward: a chance to deeply bond with my host.
For despite being acquainted with these friends for years -- that ranged from
three to sixty-five -- we rarely had the luxury that dozens of uninterrupted
hours could bring.
Each morning,
as I drank coffee that was thoughtfully prepared the night before, I'd listen
for the opening of a bedroom door, the sound of slippered feet coming my way,
and the familiar greeting from a bathrobed friend.
As I'd watch
each enter her kitchen, pull a mug from a cabinet, and pour her hot drink, I
felt as if I had been reunited with a long-lost sister. But it wasn't DNA that
matched us, simply years of traveling together through life's joys and
sorrows. A trio of these friends had
known me through first marriage and divorce, and all cleaved to me through my
second husband's illness and death.
In the dark
Evanston, Morton Grove, and Chicago mornings, we'd bring each other up-to-date
on the goings on during the nearly five months since I departed from my
longtime home. And even though I chat frequently with these friends, and view
Facebook status reports, these early morning kitchen conversations were as precious
as an heirloom.
These recent
scenes were what I had been attempting to create many years ago with my
daughters. When I was still living in Chicago and they would visit from Boston
or Los Angeles, I would plead for them to stay at our house. After all, Tommy
and I had a spare room with a queen--sized bed that was decorated with
photographs and paintings of these girls and their families. I would often joke
to my friends that this space was a shrine to my kids.
I had tried to
explain the joy of seeing a loved one slowly drift down the stairs from the
second floor to the kitchen, where I had been up for hours. Their hair tossed like brunette haystacks,
eyes still sleepy from travel and time differences, crinkly tee shirts and
shorts serving as pajamas, and faces still unfolded from sleep.
While one
daughter easily accepted my invitation, the other insisted on a hotel.
"I'll be over first thing in the morning," she'd promise.
"It's not
the same thing," I'd say into the phone, my left hand cradling cheek and
chin. How could I explain that the showered, dressed, and put-together young
woman who would be ringing my doorbell was not the one I had longed to envelop.
Once though,
when both daughters were traveling with their children, the recalcitrant gal
agreed to stay over. I can still see my grandchildren leaping from bed to air
mattress, jumps that doubled my delight.
After Tommy
died and I moved to my River North high rise, one of its bonuses was a fully
furnished guest apartment. I was in heaven! Now, just 10 floors down from my
19th floor unit, my clan was tucked in for easy access. As soon as I'd wake,
I'd check my cell phone to learn who was up, who wanted coffee, and who was
available for breakfast. Although they weren't within my four walls, I could
win the early morning scenes I relished.
Now that I live
in Los Angeles and are about three miles away from my offspring, I will
frequently hire a Lyft or Uber to take me in the 6 a.m. darkness to their
house. Along with my just-awoken daughters, I now am blessed with grandchildren
still wearing their own nighttime outfits, their hair adorably messed, and
yawns intermixed with "Hi, Grandma."
In a few
months, I'll likely venture from LA and return to Chicago to again see my
left-behind dear friends. Because I was a good guest -- stripped linens and
picked up an occasional restaurant check -- I assume their queen-, double, foldout,
futon, and king-sized beds will welcome me. If not, could I sleep at your
place? An air mattress will do, but you must promise a first-in-the-morning cup
of coffee with a sisterly hug for me.
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