“Forward.” I’ve been thinking that might be the tattoo I need. Maybe on my wrist.
Is there a nifty quote about forward motion, about not looking back?
I refuse to have the Chinese symbol for forward motion. If it exists. No offense, China. I just have no connection to you, except for, you know, almost everything I own.
Mother’s Day was lovely. The girls made beautiful, beautiful, glitter-glued, cursive-covered cards. Poems that knocked me out. And my mama had secretly taken them shopping. Hattie Bella selected a heart pendant for me with little sparkles all over it, and a tiny laughing gold Buddha. We decided he needed a bra, but he was so happy, he didn’t seem to mind his lack of support.
“Rub his tummy,” Hattie commanded. “For luck.”
I did.
Sophie Bean selected a smooth stone with “Good Fortune” carved into it, as well as an aqua-blue, half-moon glass prism to hang in the window. “It’s your planet,” she told me.
We had been talking about astrological signs in the car the other day, and how each sign is supposedly connected to a planet or satellite.
Basically, it means she was listening. They’ve both been listening: some luck, good fortune, a heart, and a moon. And words on paper.
Then they both took turns reading fairy tales to me. H, with great hesitation, needing much coaxing and praise. She is frustrated that the reading is not coming more easily to her. Soph made sure to compliment her sister, let H work out the hard words on her own.
Breakfast in bed, over at Babci’s house. All four of us getting crumbs of Boston Creme donuts and egg-and-cheese biscuits in the sheets. Eli and Carlita Kitty nudging their way into our tangled mess. So very much laughing. I was sandwiched by so much love — two other generations, one above, one below.
Mom found me a book on the heart and soul of geocaching. Ah. She’s been listening too.
After breakfast, Sophie and Hattie decided to make a card for the elderly woman downstairs, who had kids once, but no longer gets visitors. Their idea.
They delivered their card in bare feet.
Might be the best gift of all, and it wasn’t even for me.
That’s a pretty great Mother’s Day. Perfect, I would say.
I wish there were a reset button, a starting-over switch I could touch again and again, when I slip. I am trying to move forward, but it is difficult when they are not with me, not dropping crumbs on my pillow, and giggling as only little girls know how to giggle.
“Forward.” What does that look like?
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