Apart

And sometimes, even when we're physically quite close, we're far apart. It might be because Cleo has drifted off to sleep, as on Saturday evening, or it might simply be because people - and Cleo is very much a Person now - inevitably have different interests, and trains of thought, and lives.

For instance, last night Cleo wanted to stay at the dinner table after the meal so that she could play with a pair of dolls. Sure thing, we said, and L. tackled a few chores around the house while I did the dishes and sat down with a copy of Rudolf Arnheim's classic Art and Visual Perception. About 20 minutes later, my mind full of perceptual diagrams and a realization that I should probably help Cleo get ready for bed, I walked back into the dining room - only to find that she had made a tiny jacket for one of her dolls out of a square of aluminum foil. Not more than 50 feet apart, we'd been completely invested in utterly distinct tasks.

Or take yesterday afternoon. On a gorgeous early summer day, L. sagely suggested that we stop at the Berkeley Springs town green so that Cleo could do some romping in the natural springs. Yes, and yes, and yes: Cleo was quick out of the car, across the street, and skipping towards the pools and channels of water, while we strolled behind. And a few minutes later, she was almost completely drenched, her light dress now darkened with wet, as L. and I sat on a park bench and idly leafed through the Sunday Post. Boxscores against the excited cries of children; the Sunday funnies under the sun; a mention of a singer named Keren Ann, whose name I'd never heard before - suddenly interrupted by Cleo's vivid, excited exhortation to watch her jump in once again.

We're together and apart, no? There are moments when we engage, on our own terms, with the world beyond; the circle of family stretches, momentarily giving way to other allegiances, affiliations, and interests. And then we reassert the reality of family, returning to that fold, enriched, and now slightly different for our experiences, even as we recount them to each other.