Olive sleeps next to me in our bed. Deep cough, sore throat, warm forehead. Her perfect attendance at school lost to a fever on the first day of Spring.
The snow turns to a soggy soup, puddles collect in the low places, soon to be ice if our temperatures drop as predicted. Old Man Winter not yet ready to release his frigid grip.
No flowers yet up here in southeast Alaska. No Iris, Buttercups or Forget Me Nots.
But the light announces the arrival of Spring, singing hymns of renewal when the sun rises before 8:00 a.m. and sets after 8:00 at night.
We crawl out of winter, with our pale skin and eyes unaccustomed to the sun so high in the sky, so brazen and bright.
The light alone relieves anxiety.
Still wound tight, I feel myself unravelling, thread by frayed silver thread, as I walk outside, as the sun still shines. I release a layer or two of tension when I feel the warmth of the sun on my lined face.
Elias has been more on edge this month, maybe its his hormones, maybe his equilibrium is off as winter turns to spring, maybe its the anticipation of moving again from this one room cabin to our trailer as we continue to work on building our house. A project delayed this fall when the roof leaked and we waited for the contractor to make it right. We are finally able to insulate, with a long way to go until we will be living in a finished home.
We will all be grateful for bedroom doors; you hold your breath more without them. We have now lived for 19 months without bedroom doors, with our two children only a few feet apart as they lay down in their pajamas.
Last night, Olive came booking down from the loft, followed by Elias throwing all his blankets, a towel, and Olive's basketball jersey after her.
"He was staring at me," Olive said as she leaned into Nick.
I stood at the bottom of the ladder looking up at my agitated son, "What's up Bud?" I asked, my voice as calm as I could muster, knowing all he hears is tone, no words, whenever he sees red.
"Olive didn't need to run away!" he shouted in his strangled voice.
"She's feeling scared by your unexpected actions."
"No! No she's not!"
Before they climbed up into the loft, Olive ran to us from the bathroom, with her brother in hot pursuit, frustrated that she came in to floss when he was in there to brush.
I stood between my children and Elias swung at me, grabbed me in the chest, twisted my shirt in his man hands.
No wonder she bolted when he merely looked at her. And yet I understand his desire for privacy.
I can't wait till we all have bedrooms. With doors. Two bathrooms. Space to claim as our own.
In the meantime, as the days stretch and cover up the shrinking night, we'll head outside.
"Wouldn't it be cool if we could live outside?" Olive said to Nick and I as we took a walk on Saturday night, without Elias, who spent the evening with a respite worker.
("Its not fair that Elias gets to spend time with a friend and I don't," Olive said at the beginning of the walk.
"Olive its called respite because it gives us a break from Elias, so you have time with Mom and Dad and we can do things together that Elias may not be able to do. And so we don't have to worry about him, we can have a break. Thats what respite means."
This explanation shifted her attitude from feeling left out to feeling included, "special" even, and the three of us soon engaged in a competitive sea-glass search with full-body tackling and all.)
Wouldn't it be cool if we could live outside?
Olive's question led to plans for a future backpacking trip, carrying everything we need, exploring the mountains behind our home.
"Elias would have to be with grandparents so the three of us could do something like that," I said.
And instead of wavering at the thought of missing time with her beloved grandparents, Olive asked, "Can we camp in the snow and build a fort?"
"Sure, we can even build a snow kitchen."
"Yeah, I want to do that. I want to sleep up in the mountains!"
When Nick and I first met, almost 18 years ago, during a 21-day hiking expedition, we dreamt of a life spent exploring this great state with packs on our backs and rivers and peaks in our sight.
Our life didn't unfold as we expected. Our packs and peaks more metaphors for the worries we carry and the obstacles we face.
But here we are, building a house on the side of Foundry Peak, planning a someday expedition with our eight-year-old daughter.
Possibilities exist beyond my imagination.
Elias will find his smile again. Olive's fever will break, she will stop coughing--
--and who knows what adventures await.
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