At recess I slide my cell phone open and the screen appears. No missed calls. No texts. No voice messages.
My heart goes back to its normal rhythm. My diaphragm expands and allows a deep, slow breath.
A breath of relief. Like realizing you are floating on a raft on a calm summer day when, for a second, you were on alert for the hurricane warning.
My normal day remains normal and I go back to whatever it is that teachers do with a recess here - a lunch there. Emails answered. Papers filed away.
The cell phone goes back into my desk drawer.
I am not far enough past the unbloggable to leave my phone in my purse yet, locked in my file cabinet, left for an entire day unchecked. But I feel that day around a nearby corner. It smiles at me and tells me to be patient.
That day will arrive when the fears and dangers of the unbloggable are far away. Not now. Not when those days are still close enough in the past that I can feel the grip and wrench of stomach muscles when I think the unbloggable has reared its head and demanded a rematch. When a crack seems to appear in the dark abyss at the center of normalcy and my adrenaline goes into overdrive. I stand at the edge of the void that hovers close by, that cliff that I have come to know is there waiting on the periphery of all our lives - waiting to test us and wreak havoc.
I can only hope that time and tide takes me further away from that cliff with the grace of each passing day.
The unbloggable began with a text.
The cell phone represented instantaneous changes in any given day.
Now, everyday I check my phone at recess and lunch. I no longer carry it on vibrate in my pocket, ready to switch roles and agendas midday.
Each time I see the tranquil photo on the screen and realize all is fine, I gain a bit of strength and courage. A touch of grace.
I say a short prayer of gratitude and go on with my day.