Later, on Easter Sunday…
I survived. An attitude in itself that sort of stamps a brand of “Mensch” upon me rather than anyone else. What else is there to say? I adore Easter, anticipating everything about it and I am a short-sighted ninny enough for my own enjoyment to, amidst whatever preparations I am doing, forget each year how much I love it all. It is religion. It is nature with the turning of the season no matter what the weather. It is fashion. Finally! Give me pastels or give me death!
But a gathering today of a blend of people who still manage to sit at the same table is no small feat. I should give thanks, but I think in my advancing age I could be, forgive me, but as I sat there, quiet, wishing the conversation would please steer away from politics and the denial of climate change, and swirling with desires of dream conversations, I did start to think that perhaps I am “the asshole at the table.” Trouble is I am just fine with it. Oh, I am not the person who argues (although in my head I am slinging one-liners to beat the band). But I did start to realize that really…my opinion was not asked nor desired. Okay.
Doesn’t it happen to everyone?
Of course eventually, given that my ex-husband is there, something he says “strikes the nerve.” And it hurts. Not that a comment was even said. My son had asked a question. My ‘ex’ answered. Then I waited for it. I waited for further explanation. I waited for the appropriate conversation to follow.
I could have spoke, but at the moment I was unsure even of my ability to carry the words with grace and intellect. My mind thanked God for timing as I could keep doing dishes all the while waiting for that ‘appropriate response.’ I thanked God again as minutes later I realized it was these moments, of waiting for even his words to reach out to me which haunted me for twenty years but no longer matter. I am not thick skinned yet, but I am getting there.
I made sure my mother got home safely, kissing her at the doorway, to which she replied with puckered lips, “I deserve two…”
A kiss. Two kisses. Yes, it is my mother, but I do believe in the gifts of Easter: The sight of bluebirds in the field next to my father’s grave and not one kiss, but two, from my mother.
As I go along this new path in life I find that each day brings new lessons. And if I am wise I do not analyze too greatly their significance. I am unsure if I am “deserving of two” of anything in life except that of the sweetness of such a moment.
Just live, Steph. Just live.
Happy – and sweet – Easter to all!
ps. Please forgive me. I will keep trying new layouts. I miss writing. I finally have a vision of what I want the “Brick Dandelion” to be…..Thank you for reading.
Funny, isn’t it? A person sticks an image in her head of “the kiss” or “the moment”…What if it was a mother’s kiss all along?
#writing #thebrickdandelion #stephaniesjourney #womanslifeinthewoods #beginningofcontemplativelife