Unbearable Sweetness of Being

When your heart is breaking, it's helpful to remember little things.

Such as,

Walking home from the bus stop with just Tucker, now seven, big brothers off at soccer and art activities, late autumn warm spell, golden sideways sun rays raking us and the shorn hay fields beside us, he abruptly cuts short a story from his school day (involving an irritating exercise in "Guidance" in which he, Calvin and Chandler learned the word "compromise," mainly through their failure to do so), throws off his backpack, and crouches over the blacktop, hands hovering, and lunges.

After many attempts, that grasshopper being a quick one, he secures the little green being in his cupped hands and presents it to me, opening a hole just wide enough to peer in, but not too wide to give his captive freedom (just yet).  "See him, Mom?"  Yes, I say.  Then he squats to the grass, opens his hands and says quietly, a private conversation, "Goodbye, friend."

*****

Winding down for bed.  Doing dishes, Duncan watching Game 5 with Tucker, Reeve cartooning over MooseTracks ice cream at the dinner table.  Lola reposing on the couch.  Curtains drawn signifying fall ~ we hung those curtains our first year here, first time to feel the exposure when the leaves fall, leaving our life a tableau vivant for drivers-by to watch (thank you, but no); memories of the day I stood on a ladder drilling the curtain rods in, later to say goodbye to the hope of a Baby Springtime, who departed aloft a parade of luminous candle lanterns rising to the moon that night.

But this, here, now, I'm talking on the phone with Jordy about why I desire to support a friend in starting an African American theater company in the (vast majority white) Upper Valley, something about the connection between Arts and Diversity, how we need to be able to imagine ourselves as others, that - looking back on my childhood, I looked like I fit in, I could play that part but - I never felt like I fit in, on the inside.  And how important it was to "find my people," whom I found in other places, and didn't fit any mold of culture, age, gender, sexuality, but all shared this ~ a feeling of themselves as other than/more than the package they were born into, and longing to express that, and the arts giving voice/image/music/words to that longing ~ and meanwhile, as I am speaking, Reeve wanders over from the table and gets my attention, mouthing silently the words, self-referencing with a thumb pumping toward his heart, "Me too.  I feel like that," and our eyes meet and I nod, and I feel completely understood in the universe, and I hope he does too.

*****

Duncan, game over.  Yankees, totally legit comeback, taking the series to 3-2 heading back to Houston where we feel sorry for our Yankees, faced by insane Houston fans decked out in Orange, rabid, maniacal, like their lives depend on victory, but pumped for Game 6, and also prepared to let Houston have this one, if it should come to pass, as "they've had a rough time and kinda deserve something good," confesses our good man and loyal Yankeeist, Duncan Green.

Same day, over coffee at Anne's with Duncan Green's grandfather, Grampy Dicken, who shares ~ nay, bequeathed? ~ Duncan's round head, solid athletic frame, and stunning capacity to spin the tedium that is professional sports into epic drama yarn even I can care (a little) about, tells me that he wants me to share a confession on his behalf with my son, Duncan:  Namely that, for the first time in his life, he (Grampy, a diehard Red Sox fan) is rooting for the Yankees.  Such good men, both, I am blessed to be born of and have given birth to.

That night before bed I let Duncan know that Grampy Dicken will henceforth be his driver/chaperone to Hebrew tutoring on Tuesdays.  Duncan nods, a Dude's nod, not giving up too much and so all the more poignant, saying simply, "Cool."  Then heads for his room.  Then turns and comes back.  "You know, Mom?  I feel like I have a special connection with Grampy.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I have a great connection with all my grandparents.  But with Grampy, it's different.  Special.  Or something.  Ya know?"  I nod and say I do know.  He nods again, "Cool.  Good night."  Good night, beautiful boy.

*****

So many unbearably sweet things. 

A little arm gripping my neck at bedtime.  A tiny man folding laundry in symbolic apology for a colossal dinnertime meltdown.  Waiting for access to the bathroom while little men test hair gel.

Cut flowers placed on the toilet with a note of thanks for the nice things I do.  An unsolicited Lola nuzzle to my knee while waiting for the bus. Custom-made birthday gifts of cartoon strip of the "Kitty Flash" and "The Girl From Thrasher Road" samba.

The first sound produced on a new instrument.  A text to apologize for being cranky.  Clouds in the shape of beheaded sheep.  A symbolic compass,  homemade meat pies, and forgiving soil after a very long, rocky hike.

 "Good nights" every night, and "good mornings" every morning.

*****

To love in private moments known only to us, and even we are unlikely to remember.