Dispatches from Midwest, Issue 2

Saturday, 1 March: Daytime

Less than 36 hours into my vacation, and I’ve already made my way back to a Library. Mr. Indiana and I strap Wesley into the back seat of Optimus Prime (my flagging confidence in this vehicle is not exactly helped by Wes’s delighted exclamation “This is the biggest car in the world!”).

Me and Optimus Prime, AKA the Biggest Car in the World

We head to Monroe County Public Library for a celebration of Dr. Seuss’s bday. Well, Mr. Indiana and Wes are bound for Seuss-land; I indulge in a rather more boring activity of perusing the Indiana Room and fantasizing over the imaginary dream life of being a Local History Librarian.

At one point, I wander next door to my Darling Uncle’s record store, Tracks, which sells not only cds and records, but college apparel. It’s a tradition for me to drop a few bucks on various IU gear, and today was no exception. When I was at the cash register, paying, a woman walked in, leading along her dog on a leash. The sales clerk glanced up and said words, magical words, that I hadn’t heard in eight years:

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you can’t bring your dog in here.”

Saturday, 1 March: Night

It’s been an epically brutal winter all throughout the Midwest, and all day people have talking about the latest winter storm which is supposed to hit right about now. But it’s two o’clock in the morning, and so far the only weather we've had are clouds, which gleam eerily as the lights of Bloomington shine against them.

My body is still on California time, despite  the two hefty glasses of wine I have consumed, and I cannot fall asleep. So I sit on the couch and gaze out the back window into the night, pondering the bare trees silhouetted against the weirdly-illuminated sky, waiting for The Weather to come, waiting for sleep to come, waiting for my bewildered version of grief to pass. It’s a strange, even stupid thing to think, but I can’t help but to wonder, Did my mother look out into the Indiana winter nights and see something similar?

The rest of the house is asleep, or so I think, but as it turns out, Mr. Indiana hears me puttering about and comes downstairs to join me. Perhaps he soon regrets it, as I attempt to launch into a tearful attempt to articulate my thoughts. He listens—he’s great at listening, he always has been—but commiserating? Not so much his strong point, as evidenced when he soon digresses into one of his highly-intelligent but not-totally-relevant tangents.

It’s okay. Some sorrows can’t be explained, and can’t be shared.