We held a small memorial for a little creature whose ability to receive love taught us all a big lesson: to love is to name is to care is to keep. It is to mourn and to cry, too; and it is to continue to create and care about the living and the dying and the not-yet-born.
One does not need to do anything remarkable to be an object of love. One only needs to be that which it is – cat, boy, mom, dad, human, alive.
And when I awaken in the shadows, the house breathing in all its darkness, feeling the very terror of spinning through space on this small planet and wondering…I remember joy. Joy in the storm, joy in the pain, joy in the moments when death loomed, joy in the simple words:
I’ve told you this so that you may have my joy and that your joy may be complete.
And I whisper in the dark: thank you.
The rubble is everywhere. The dust of it clings to my shoes and hangs in the air and sticks in my throat. I sip brown coffee, the way I like it rich with cream, and survey the destruction. I’m excited. The walls that unnecessarily stood around the living room are gone and the room in which I sit, though strewn with the debris of demolition and pizza boxes and a stray lego or two, is wide open, filled with light and free of obstruction. Why we decided now was the perfect jumping-in point, I’ll never know, but it seemed like the right time to yank out the tattered carpet and remove the barrier walls. This change is something we’ve wanted since we moved in over a decade ago. “Wouldn’t it be nice if this space was open?” “Does this wall serve any purpose besides holding a light switch?” We asked these questions for years, but left the project untouched until now. Because change is messy. Change is destructive and chaotic and all-consuming. Change is in …