Mini Memoir

I sat cross-legged, carefully balanced on edge of my grandparent’s mottled brown couch. My grandmother tucked her legs to the side, neatly folding onto the floor in front of me.  “Make me beautiful,” she whispered.  I replied, “You already are,” and teased the pick through her curls; bouncy, full and perfectly done.

At home, my father took his time untangling my hair. His affection traveled with each gentle tug, erasing childhood worry and young adult stress.

My mother often sat behind me as we watched an evening show. She tested new braids, played, and wondered if anything would ever keep my hair in place through an entire gymnastics practice.

In the dorm, missing our families, we sought to fill the voids becoming an adult created. When a friend braided my hair, I flooded with joy.

My husband tucks a loose strand behind my ear, so he can see me clearly, or sweeps it aside and kisses the back of my neck. My son brushes my hair as I read to him in bed, knowing I will lose track of time.  My daughter pets my head, she is a cat person.

When I am older, I will still wind my long hair into a bun. I will sit on the floor in front of a grandchild and smile.  Generations of love will be in their small hands, unwinding my hair.  Untangling me.

Morning People, but not me.

“Good Morning.” My husband greets our daughter as she shuffles to her door. She is the first to rise; her alarm a warning for the rest of us. I bury into my pillow, defiantly asleep.

She echoes him softly, “Good Morning.” Morning people. In the space between them the day holds more joy, pushing aside the list already running through my head.

In the kitchen I rub my eyes, put the kettle on and listen to the house come alive. My son opens his door, racing his dog to the back yard. They are eager to see what the universe has to offer.

I struggle to find my rhythm. Trying to remember whose lunch goes in which container. I check the calendar. Someone always has something, and I forgot to use the dry erase marker on the bathroom mirror the night before. I tally up the reminders to distribute to the chaos.

“I Love You.” There is nothing quite like being a mother – their mother. My family dances, invading and evading space. We sneak hugs in like candy. Gorging on it, filling our cheeks to last us.

“Have a good day.” She leaves first. Our hands make a heart on the cold glass barrier. She will do amazing things today.

One by one, we disperse, until I remain.  The pets crowd at my feet still wound from the waking. Then we each settle – into our space, into the emptiness, into the blink of the day that drags on and vanishes quickly.

One by one, we return. We tell stories, share fragments, and drift away in the accomplishments and failures we have encountered. Warm blankets summon, darkness brings rest.

“Lights out!” I call out the reminder and hear the click of the switch. There is a whisper from the hallway, “I Love You.”

“So much.”

 

 

 

Seven Years.

My husband sent me a message as soon as he got to his office this morning. In the midst of breakfasts and showers and gathering school bags and making lunches my computer chortled – greeting me with a pulsing red heart and a twirling cake.

Thanks Love.

Every year he remembers. He gifts me a moment to celebrate and reflect. My hand reaches to my chest and I holler to my daughter, because the date is special to her as well. Later this year he will send her a reminder of her own.

Seven years ago my husband calmed my nerves and joked with me behind a blue curtain before he was sent to the waiting room. He sat while a surgeon took my heart into his gifted hands. He waited for the updates. He was there when I woke, tubed and drugged and unable to speak. He listened to stories of my older roommate, awake throughout the night. He brought me home, driving carefully on bumps so that I would not wince in pain. He held my elbow as I cautiously took my walks, to the end of the driveway, to the neighbors driveway, to the end of our culdesac and then laps in the park. He hugged our children tightly when I could not. He hugged me gently and told me I was strong.

Seven years ago and it seems like forever . . . but no, perhaps yesterday. He was there when I was stubborn, weak, strong, feisty, and broken – sometimes all at once. While I healed and he went back to his work-week, he left only when a loving friend or family member came in his place. I did not lift laundry, groceries, or my children. He made sure I behaved, knowing I would push too hard if not reminded to be still and be better.

Seven years later and it is only a tally mark in our journey together. Open-Heart Surgery. Multiple ASD Repair. It fits snuggly between failed Cath Surgery repair attempt and Anniversary, followed soon after by Daughter Open-Heart Surgery, followed by another Cath Surgery to repair another fluke in my heart.

Pulsing Heart and Twirling Cake. We celebrate our tally marks . . . and I am grateful to do so . . . with him.