Dear Diary,
One of my most favorite books to read as a child was, "The Secret Garden." I was even more excited when we got to read it in elementary school... and again, when I found out that we would be using class time to watch the video (yes, on VHS)... and even MORE excited to hear that included with the video was a dainty silver locket.
There was a catch, though... it only came with one locket, but there were more than twenty students in each class. The prize needed to be given away fairly, so one of the teachers mentioned writing names on slips of paper, leaving the outcome to chance. But my heart was set on that little necklace and I didn't like those odds. I had to do something about it.
So, generally-shy little me worked up the nerve to raise my hand and suggest a different idea: a trivia competition. We would all be quizzed about the book, and the winner would keep the locket. "Plus, it'll save paper from being wasted." I was determined.
The odds were much better now and I knew the book from cover to cover.
I also knew exactly what I wanted to do with the locket when I won it. Not "if"... "when".
And I did.
I remember racing home from the bus with my shiny new treasure, digging out photos I'd been collecting, measuring the space I needed to fill, and getting to work.
It was perfect. I wore it to school every day after that for the longest time.
Fast-forward more than twenty years... tonight, my oldest sister, Jenn, walked up to me with a smirk while I was rocking Norah to sleep.
"Close your eyes and open your hand..."
"Is it a bug? I swear Jenn, if it's something alive again, I'm going to get you back!"
"No, it's not... trust me. You'll like this one."
And I did.
I knew from first sight what it was because I remembered how hard I worked to get it. You don't easily forget something like that. And I knew what was inside because it took quite a while to find pictures with the proper cutable dimensions to fit ... this was back when you had to wait days or weeks for photos to be developed from rolls of film, back when the concept of "one-hour photo" was a myth for us common folk, and back when you couldn't just press a button to print whatever size image you needed.
I was sentimental even as a kid... and look where we are now... same boy, same girl... only now, with a family of our own.
Sincerely,
me.
Tag: nostalgia
4 April 2021: No Easter bunny this year.
Dear Mom, I didn't make Easter baskets this year. I didn't want to. The girls already have so much--so many lovely things... we've truly all been blessed in so many ways. Aria even said to tell the Easter Bunny that he can skip over our house so that he has extra to share with other kids who might need the surprises more. You'd have been proud. I was. She added that she didn't think Norah Jane would mind either since she's "too little to eat candy and doesn't have any teeth yet". Speaking of the baby, I know there have been a lot of changes since she was born--and although the older two understand the need to share their time with me, I still want to make sure they know that their importance doesn't diminish... their place in my life isn't any less prominent because there's one more to share my triply-expanded heart with. I remember the little notes you'd leave for Jenn, Tris, and I with "token gifts" as you'd call them... and how you always seemed to know how to make a single item mean so much more than any room filled with presents ever could. A musical snow globe... a stuffed giraffe plush that could fit into the palm of my hand... a hand-written letter, or a simple candy cane ornament. It was your heart... the love woven into every aspect of you being our Mom. I thought about it, but I didn't make any Easter baskets this year. Instead, I purchased 2 empty books with delicately decorated pages and penned a letter in each--hopefully the first of many. The girls are growing up so fast and I never want to miss out on our time together... you've taught me how precious it truly is... and how fleeting. I still cherish our letters to each other, me and you... except now, tears accompany the smiles as I read. I miss you, Mom. Love always, "Pookie"
6 October 2020: I drank tea from your mug today.
Dear Mom, I drank tea from your mug today. Well… my mug. But I still consider it yours. I woke up a bit early this morning—with just enough time to try to clear my head before it was time to wake the girls and get them ready for the day. I tried to make tea the way you always did. “Nonnie Tea” (coined lovingly as such by Aria around 2017… before that, it was always just “hot tea the way Mom always makes it”)…but I didn’t have any Lipton tea bags, so I tried to improvise with a generic sort. It didn’t taste the same… not even from your mug… well, my mug… but I still consider it yours. You know the one. The blatantly fraternal replacement for my favorite mug. The teddy bear one that you gave me. It was matte stone-fired and rustic looking with three thick bands of subtle earthy gradient… smooth to the touch—as if worn and weathered, not from glaze. I would have thought that it was made by an ancient tribe had it not been for the circular applique blended into the surface with a plush teddy bear drawn on top. Quaint. Classic. Sturdy. I loved it. You let me take to school when I was in 6th grade… the first year Jenn was out of the house and I felt like I didn’t have my biggest sister in my life much anymore. In English class, we were allowed to keep a mug in the cabinet for when we would have hot chocolate days. That was also the year that I wore your old hand-knit (or at least it appeared as such) gaudy sweater to school every day. I didn’t care about my reputation. That year brought a heavy weight of transition—switching churches, my oldest sister leaving home, you and Dad working all of those extra hours with me ‘stuck’ at home with Tris—who wasn’t exactly the nicest to me at the time (overstatement). [Thankfully, we usually get along much better now.] It was just a lot. When you’re a kid, you don’t really understand the “why” behind the decisions your parents make. I didn’t understand then. I do now, though. Fast-forward a bunch of years… I heard you in the kitchen washing dishes… presumably dancing around to Van Morrison’s “Whenever God Shines His Light” … or another one of your favorites… when mid-chorus, there was a shatter. And perhaps an uttered expletive… or a sound-alike expletive—it was anyone’s guess, but only you know. To my horror, my favorite mug… the teddy bear one… the one you said looked like “Pookie Bear” from Garfield (and therefore, reminded you of me) … there it lie in a scattered heap of barely-recognizable shards. The mug that got me through the complexities of 6th grade and all subsequent heartbreak up until that point. Unrepairable. It’s strange how moments that seemed vibrantly pinnacle back then tend to pale over the years… as others that might have seemed trivial step into the foreground. Ages ago, it was about the mug. Now, it’s about the look of remorse on your face after something so special to me was broken. I still remember it. You offered one of your favorite cups to me as a replacement. That was always your way though… giving the best of yourself to try to heal the brokenness in the lives of those you love. So, I drank tea from your mug today… and although it didn’t taste the same, I still felt your warmth and the way you always sacrificed the best of yourself to mend the brokenness in us. I miss you terribly. Love always, “Pookie”
25 February 2020: Close to you.
When I was 10 months old, I had a hernia operation. The hairline scar grew with me throughout adolescence--and so has my love for giraffes. Let me explain. It was during that hospital stay when my parents presented me with a tiny little plush giraffe--one that looks almost like it was crafted in the style of a Precious Moments character and was probably almost as tall as I was at that age. I was fascinated. As soon as I was able to form words on my own, I called him "Joshy". Fast-forward through various holidays, birthdays, and souvenir-shop endeavors... from family members, friends, and even acquaintances... I was surrounded by giraffes. Drawings, figurines, stuffed animals, bedspreads (ironically enough, I don't actually particularly fancy animal print patterns), I amassed quite an inadvertent collection. I even remember the best Christmas gift my parents had ever gotten for me. I don't remember exactly how old I was though-- nine? We were walking through a local warehouse-turned-flea-market... and in one of the stands in a display case (it's funny how I can still picture it in my mind so many years later)... on the top glass shelf on the left-hand side, behind a folded pocket knife that was meant to look like it was decorated by a mosaic of ebony/ivory... a forest scene, perhaps (it's neat how as you grow and learn more, your mind is able to fill in the gaps of childhood memories), rested the most beautiful snow globe I had ever seen in my life. The base was etched with jungle foliage--deep shades of green; it reminded me of the movie "Jumanji". Underneath the dome stood an acacia tree (I was a giraffe "know it all" and decided that it just HAD to be an acacia tree since that's their favorite snack) beside a mother giraffe and her calf. The thin filaments of confetti in the water gave off an aura of enchantment. But there was more. When the silver oblong crank on the bottom of the base was twisted (my parents had the man behind the counter try it out), the song "Close to You" by The Carpenters chimed out in a lilting fashion (depending on how many times the gear triggers were raveled). That was the first time I witnessed real magic. We left without it, though. I was crushed. I remember moping the entire way back home in the car--sandwiched between my older sisters in the back seat--probably playing a not-so-endearing 'game' of elbow wars and "she's taking up too much room and squishing me!". Forlorn and grumpier than ever. When we went back some time later--it was already gone. My heart shattered. After a while, I forgot about it--at least in the foreground of my mind. Months went by and winter came around. That Christmas--after all of the other gifts were unwrapped--there was one more with my name on it. "Pookie" [stop laughing; it's what my whole family called/calls me and I still don't quite understand why]. It was the snow globe. My parents were the ones who bought it from the vendor--they just held onto it all that time--letting me think it was gone forever. The giraffes always symbolized my Mom and I... and "Close to You" became our song. I've moved around quite a bit since then... even across the country for a while... still, that snow globe stays with me. But this story isn't about the globe. It's about a different journey... one that has been in the works for over a year now. I was waiting for it to sink in. And by all other facets of realization--it should have by now. But it hasn't. Not yet. My Mom--the same woman I've inherited my overabundant love of sentimentality from--the one who could turn a few dollars into a most cherished treasure just by putting some extra special touches to it... like a handwritten note or a stuffed-animal introduction and full imaginative backstory (yes, Mom, I'm talking about "Millie Ford" the giraffe)--she needs me now. After all of the hell I put her through growing up... even as far back as her high risk and complication-filled pregnancy with me... I finally have a chance to say 'thank you' and 'I love you' in a way that I never thought would be possible. I'm lucky. In just a few weeks, I'm going to be the bone marrow transplant donor of the woman who battled through all of the worries, fears, emergencies, hospital stays, and obstacles just to bring me into this world. Her blood cells are going to essentially become replications of mine--we'll be sharing DNA on a whole different level. I hadn't realized that our song, "Close to You" would foreshadow an eventual symbiosis--it's even more perfect now. The other day, while I was sitting downstairs at the kitchen table, my parents walked up to me with a small box--my Mom with a knowing smirk on her face. There might have even been the hint of a tear forming in the corner of her eye--the one she can't quite wink properly... I looked at her, not sure of the occasion, and lifted the lid. Inside was a delicately formed gold necklace... two giraffes... a mother and her baby... their heads nestled together to form a heart. She said that she wanted to find a small way to show me how much it means to her that I was a match for the transplant and willing to go through with it [as if I ever wouldn't have]. My sister, Tristina (the same one I was undoubtedly elbowing in the back seat of the station wagon on the melancholy drive home from the flea market that one afternoon when I was nine years old) helped her find just the thing. A forever reminder of our Mother/Daughter journeys throughout the years and all of the adventures we have yet to look forward to together. I started to cry. It's perfect. --- Why do birds suddenly appear Every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be Close to you Why do stars fall down from the sky Every time you walk by? Just like me, they long to be Close to you --- I love you, Mom. I love you, Dad. [I even love you, Jenny and Trissy.] We're going to get through this.
13 December 2018: How many is too many?
Adventures in motherhood... some days are messier than others. Today was one of those days.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 