While being hand-delivered ice from Evelyn, Dave asks, “Do you think I can do it?” He isn’t talking to me, I learn. Instead, he is asking himself if he can cut a board in half or not. It turns out he can, and I cheer him on when he does.
I’m chewing the ice, swallowing the water, and hoping for another. Evelyn’s onto marching in the grass, but my eyes catch hers, and we’re back to the ice game. Seeing her with a whole cube makes me nervous, and I explain why to her, then use my teeth to break it in half.
“Most broken teeth come from ice,” my dentist told me once. I bite gently, cracking it into three pieces, and then hand them back.
I wonder how my daughter will remember me.
This thought plays in my mind every day or two. It’s sad, but it’s also a call to action. More of a how do I want her to remember me? So I hit the balloon back and forth and kicked the soccer ball. I play in the sandbox and pretend to eat her delicious dishes. I listen to her hurts and hold them like my own. I want her to know how to be with herself when things are tough.
Bedause I know they will be.
I want a memory to live in her that is as steady as her heart’s beat, that is a constant knowing that goodness and sense and promise is her right. That clouds are temporary, and clear blue skies are the norm. Maybe not in the Northwest, but somewhere.
It’s 7:42 pm; a freshly bathed Archie is lying beside me on a blanket. Evelyn is at her play house opening her mini mailbox and needs me. I get a “Thank you, Mommy” for my grabbing her ankle and pressing it forcibly into the grass and rubbing chicken poop off. The life of city farmers, eh?
Well, I better sign off for the night. I want to try out one of the new-to-me kids’ board games with Evelyn before it gets much later. Too-da-loo.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 