1) Pears. Apples. We are pears or apples as we age. An apple? You’ll be needing insulin shots. A pear? You’ll be needing an elliptical machine.
When we are born, we are delicious and undefined. Pomegranate? Banana? Mango. Guava. Strawberry. Vanilla. Chocolate. Almond. Milk. More milk. Still more milk. Cream, even. Sugar.
My wonderful friends Zeke and Karen have a new baby boy, Thomas. He is so delicious that now they glow too like sun-ripened fruit, no longer apples or pears on the kitchen counter. The three of them are glorious. When Zeke stood up and a screwdriver fell to the floor, he told his new son, “Papa just pooped a screwdriver!” And they laughed and laughed.
Laughter is the flavor, when babies arrive into ready arms. Delicious.
2) I know nothing about kittens. We have a kitten. If our dog does not eat her, she will stay, both existentially and in our home. Sophie is a little afraid of the kitten, who attacks Chapsticks and barrettes as if they are Nazi grenades and she is saving our lives with each selfless tackle. Just now, she bounced off my head and somersaulted through the air, because I had left a dangerous Chapstick unattended.
I keep Sophie calm by pretending I know things about kittens. I tell Sophie that our kitten is living in a comic book cat world, and her adventures are deadly serious to her, and we must not mock her for this. I tell Sophie that our kitten is saving us from monsters in the shower drain. I tell Sophie that our kitten is perfectly normal, although I have not heard of a kitten catapulting off of human heads. I tell Sophie she will be a most affable cat, once her comic book cat world is rid of some of its worst monsters.
Sophie nods.
“Do you think it was crazy, my bringing home a cat?”
Sophie nods again. “A little.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“She’s a little crazy. And goofy,” says Sophie. “Like you.”
“Yes.” We nod at each other on the bathroom floor as the kitten hurtles through the air like a calico Ninja, claws extended, pupils wild and devouring all light. Delicious.
3) Today marks one year since the death of an old friend’s daughter. Her daughter, Arden, did not make it to four years of age. They thought she might beat it. She was a remarkable, vivacious little girl, with a spirit undefinable. Neuroblastoma won this round.
I cannot understand this pain. I cannot step into it, I cannot begin to know it. Why Amy and her husband were chosen to know this pain, I will never understand. One year without a beloved child is just the beginning of a life without a beloved child, and they will know this every day of their lives. There will be laughter, there will be other beloved children, but there will never be another Arden.
That pain, the pain of walking into an empty pink room with butterfly lights and a pouncing kitten? A closet full of little girl dresses and socks? Untouched bookshelves with “I Love You Forever” and “Purplicious”? My mind will not take me beyond those fey images. I cannot reach Amy and her husband and her son where they are—I can only extend my hand to them, words trailing off the fingers. Nothing is right. And yet, nothing is right, too. The hand outstretched, the empty, jumbled words—they matter. This, I believe.
She—Arden Quinn—was delicious beyond description. As is the heart of her mother, Amy.
Amy wrote on the day Arden died,
“How can I be angry at God when he brought Arden to us? How can I be angry at God when he brought you all to us? How can I be angry at the doctors or nurses who work so very hard every day for our sick children and have Arden’s safety and well-being at heart?…
…So, what do we have left? What empowers us? Love. Love is what keeps us going, laughing, singing, reading, and praying by Arden’s side. Love motivates people to pray and support us. Actions done in love lead to pride and optimism. Love helps us feel connected and purposeful. For us, recognizing the love surrounding us helps ease our pain. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Rick and I realize that our pain and tears are because of our love.
Life is so very precious. We appreciate every aspect of life, even the most difficult ones. We choose to celebrate life, not mourn or complain about it. We choose to love life, especially when we could potentially lose our dearest and closest family members or friends at any time.”
My God. Yes. This is love. This—she, they, all of us—this is what we are capable of. We can taste the tears, but we are sometimes wise enough to taste the sweetness too, when it is ours, and still, when it is gone. The love goes on.
Amy, Rick, and G-Man, our hearts are with you today, and with the delicious spirit of Arden Quinn. Always.
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