After our trip east, we attend the State Fair in Pomona at the beginning of Oct., a first without the kids. We hop on the sky ride, followed by a suspicious pair.
I've never realized how quiet it is here, in my house, in my neighborhood, in LA, now that my daughter's gone. I've been living in denial, thinking I wouldn't miss her, but she's left a huge void. How do people do it? "Stay busy," my cousin says. "Meditate," Thicht Nhat Hahn says. I walk around the loop and sit on a bench, off the beaten path down a small incline. I hear people above me talking about scripts, TV pilots, breakups, unemployment. I hear dogs sniffing around, some find me, some slide down the hill, their owners in a panic. I try to meditate: maybe I should get a dog, but then, I'd have a dog and wouldn't have the freedom I have now without the kids. A paradox. Meditating some more: Aha! I should get going on all those big writing projects, the ones I started in the last years and never finished, and now with both kids gone I can begin. But when I sit down to write, all I want to do is write, talk, think about them.
