The Shape of My Love

IMG_0027.jpg

I’m reading The Bright Hour by Nina Riggs. She has a passage that’s been ruminating in my head:

Which makes my thinking go like this: When you fall in love with your kids, you fall in love forever. And that love forms the exact shape in the world of the cab of a beat-up pickup on the side of the dark highway — filled with safety and Steve Wonder and okay-ness.

Or the exact shape of a single hospital bed with two figures nestled in it. Which of course suggests that no matter what, the kid is going to be all right.

I’ve been wondering what my love looks like for Eldon, or what my love looks like for my parents. I remember having maori practice in my backyard some Saturday afternoon. My dad was teaching all of us a song, and when I started to sing, he smiled at me in a way that made me feel like the most important person in the world.

I remember when I took out my endowments in the Salt Lake City temple, my mom hovered and fretted over me the whole time. Her nervousness on my behalf somehow made me feel calm and loved and proud. When it was all over, she looked at me with a kind of wistfulness as if she was trying to capture the feeling of this moment for a little bit longer. Or maybe that was me.

What will Eldon remember? What will be the story that makes him say, “That’s when I knew my mom loved me.” It’s a silly notation, I know. The love I have for Eldon isn’t wrapped up in one story or one moment. I’m sure the shape of it will grow, expand, evolve into something solid, and eternal. I can’t wait.

Advertisements

Burn

galaxy lollipops

Galaxy lollipops are a thing now.

I mourn a lot over my past self. I remember this intense girl who picked spots on the horizon and tried with clumsy determination to make it into the general area. She accomplished a lot of what she set out to do, but she seldom felt the glow that seemed promised in her ambitions. She also talked more than she listened.

I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting today. Two different people came up to me after the meeting and prefaced the usual, “great job, thanks for sharing” church greeting with, “You know, it’s really scary to go up there, but…”

The husband assured me that I did not in fact sound afraid or nervous, but the comments have stuck in my head wondering when I became such a coward.

I’ve only recently begun to hear the voices in my head again. This is how it starts for me. A fragment of conversation between characters that with the proper nudging develops into dialogue. More nudging may invoke a theme. My hope is that the attention may lead me to a story. How desperately I hope that my fingers and my brain will get their act together long enough for a story. How much I have missed it.

I’ve been listening to the Hamilton soundtrack too much (is that possible?). The phrase “palaces out of paragraphs” sound so lovely even against its context. “You built cathedrals.” How glorious and frightening.