i went home this weekend to do a bit of regrouping and to celebrate my dad's release from a week in the hospital. my Mom was cooking for all of us- beef stroganoff, french bread from the oven burning my fingers, crab smothered in melted butter, asparagus dark green with seasoning and oil. I feel weighed down more and more after every meal, unable to stop filling my mouth with delicious rich foods normally absent from my northern diet. i try to go for a run, but my limbs are slow through the humid morning air. what wakes me up and keeps me moving are the little tendrils of family that wrap around the entire house. Music fills the empty space between the tops of our heads and the ceiling. you and I grab our instruments, and we begin to play without paper in front of us, trusting only the memory of our fingers as we play faster and the rusty understanding of when to shift to a new section materializes without effort.
New musicians enter the house, bringing welcome music and inspiration as one song leads to the next leads to teaching leads to understanding.
I begin to remember being unconditionally happy. trusting without boundaries. singing loud and proud and laughing until i can't speak and salty tears roll into the sides of my mouth.
when it's finally time to leave, I hug hard and don't hold back saying "i love you" as many times as I want.
i remember, now, where i started.
1 comment:
I've read the bottom 8 in your list of what you're reading and am reading "Possession" now.
The Calamitatum of Abelard is probably his best work and, reading between the lines, one can see he was a real piece of work himself.
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