Writing Me: I Remember {Sarah}

I remember seeing myself all knuckles and bones, ready to poke my own eyes out with shame.

I remember slouching into my clothes, ready to shrink away from prying junior-high condemnation.  I remember red cheeks and closed lips.  I remember disappearing.

I remember looking into the circle, wondering where my entrance would be, certain it lay somewhere just out of my skeletal reach.

I remember time passing.  I remember fullness layering.  I remember softening and easing and glowing.

I remember his eyes on mine, and the way they lingered.  I remember feeling tingles: red cheeks for another reason entirely.  I remember the confidence his arms held.

I remember being seen.

I remember being allowed to bloom.

I remember standing tall, in a circle of two.  I remember being half of something beautiful, and all of something loved.

Writing Me…I Am {Sarah}

I am an observer of hearts.
I wonder how this became, how the task was granted, gifted.
I hear a declaration from my own lips: it is the same for all mothers. But it isn’t – can’t be.
I see differently than they, because these hearts come from within my own: a mirrored room of infinite reflected passages.
I want to feel the beat within each refracted tunnel, know the pulse of each intimate thought.
I am a spy of hearts.

I pretend to find this simple. Being entrusted with so much passion.
I feel skin of satin, hair of silk, tears of dew, fevers of time and growth and change.
I touch on each of their dreams. Try to understand or even anticipate what makes them thrive.
I worry that their doors will be closed to me.
I cry out to be admitted, fearing that they will go where I cannot follow, only stare after with longing emptiness.
I am a grower of hearts.

I understand the need for autonomy, I do.
I say it out loud: they are apart from me. I will watch, absorb, revel, and remember.
I dream in memories that will keep me from falling into the deepest of sleeps: forgetful.
I try to hold on: this is how their laughter feels in my blood. This, their need. This, their perfect, velvet edges.
I hope they’ll grow up to understand.
I am a keeper of hearts.

Writing Me: In This Family Prose {Sarah}

In this family, we hold hands.  For playing and loving and laughing and crying, we hold hands.  We grab the baby’s fists and jiggle them until his grin widens into a squeal.

In this family, bedtime is a four-letter-word.  We speak it gently, so as not to anger the sleepy ones.  We speak it lovingly, because oh yes, bedtime is sacred.

In this family, little girls can be rock stars and pirates and princesses and fairies and ladybugs, all in the same twenty-minute span.

And daddy can be Superman.  And mommy can be the Evil (but super sweet on the inside) Queen.

In this family, kisses sometimes require instructions: no licking, please.  But eskimo kisses and butterfly kisses and bumblebee kisses and fishy kisses are serious day’s-end requirements.

We are

a mess

a noise

a feeling

a burst.

And we show our love with wildly silly attitude.

With imperfect apologies.

With knock-down hugs.

With mis-kneaded dough and mis-applied glitter.

In this family, we show our imperfect love without restraint.

Because in  this family, we are bigger than this family.  We swell and pulse with glowing light until we become more full and promising than the sum of our broken parts.

And in this family, the broken parts are a whole lotta fun.