Rowan, Genevieve, Moses, Jude, mesmerized by Pluto (Mickey Mouse's dog, remember?) shorts, breaking into spontaneous applause (!). Sweet small warm relaxed bodies.
I am in the kitchen, coffee cup drained, thinking about what it means to love. Reading Francisco Goldman's Say Her Name. He said (in an interview) that he chose the fiction genre to tell the story of Aura's (his wife's) death to uncover the truth, or discover it. He attributed to her "all the good lines", because wasn't that love? Yes, isn't it? To give of yourself, unselfishly, without restraint.
I spent a morning with tears hiding behind my eyes just threatening to spill. Not upset for myself really, but because Dan, who should've been on the job by 6AM, didn't leave home until after 8. I heard his alarm (apparently he set 6 different ones) through my sleep fog in the living room, but didn't know what time it was or what time he needed to be up. I shrink from the thought that he might be badly thought of, when it's not laziness, but exhaustion that deafens his ears to the systematic alarm tone. Perhaps alarm clock manufacturers should instill a more needy urgency to their wake-up tones. Or maybe we should invest in an old-fashioned clock with reverberating metal bells. My relief is great to find that his client was gracious to him.
Shem (my brother-in-law) is outside, doing double and triple eliminations to determine what is going on with cylinder #5. That's love, too, he would do this for anyone. It's his pastor's heart. And also a love of problem solving, I think. But he is always ready to give of his time. Unfortunately the old Olds is dead. But I know that we will find another car, God always provides. And that is simply more love than I know what to do with.
1 comment:
beautiful post, Emily. Thank you. And may a car come swiftly.
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