How long is six weeks?
It’s not a riddle. It’s how long I was away – home actually – but away. It’s complicated.
But it’s been six weeks since I’ve been away. I never realized how long six weeks could be.
Six weeks is enough time for my son to have grown from a baby to a boy. He looks taller. Less blobby. Less baby. More manly. He looks smarter.
Six weeks is enough time for my daughter to have a whole new vocabulary… in three languages: English, Spanish, and Spanglish. Because she does speak all three. She has distinguished which people in her life she must speak to in English and who she must speak to in Spanish. And she says, “I love you mucho mucho, Mami” without understanding that Spanglish isn’t yet an official language. (Or is it? Maybe that’s changed in six weeks.)
Six weeks is enough time to have missed my second home in Santo Domingo. The home that is like what I would imagine having a younger sister is like – wanting to get away from her and then missing her when she’s gone. And then coming back and remembering the things that are so annoying about her. But then realizing it’s why I love her.
Six weeks is enough time to have celebrated holidays warmly with family, wildly laughed with friends, and cozied up with Husband in our annual Christmas in New York Getaway.
Six weeks is enough time for polar vortexes, Nor’easters in the Northeast, and my daughter’s first real encounter with snow.
Six weeks is enough time to remember why your best friend is your best friend and why you will never feel more at home than at home.
Six weeks is enough time to baptize my son and bury my grandmother. And not quite understand how a heart has the capacity to embrace such polar extremes of life in a few short weeks.
So much life happens in so little time.
And so much life is lived in these many moments.
