Last night, I was surrounded by a bunch of Nic’s family in a hand-built, antique-filled, aluminum and wood-outfitted gorgeous house in the middle of open fields and wide skies and there was so much love and laughter and generosity of spirit. Deep into the evening, I looked over and saw the matriarch of the family, the one whose four sons and their kin had exploded all over the room in red and green — shaking. Her hands were shaking as she was bringing them to her face and then I noticed her dabbing her eyes and her cheeks and I realized the shaking was that borne of a cry. I should have gone to her straightway, but like a coward, I passed the task to someone else, fearful I could not due it justice, not being her blood relative. I asked Nic to go immediately to the table, to see if she was alright. He sat across the table from her and began to speak.
Moments after sending him, I had to make my lack of action right. I pulled up a chair next to her and placed my hand across her back. I rubbed her back like I had the power and the right to calm her nerves, ease her pain, erase her fear. She looked into my eyes and explained her state. “I just don’t know how much longer I’ll get to see all of this. I don’t know how much more time I’ll get to be with all of these amazing people in this room.” She shook her head back and forth, in joy and wonder of her beautiful, giant family.
“But — You made them all. You’ll be in this room for all of time. Because you literally created the entire room,” I said.
She looked into my eyes, pride beaming from hers. “You’re right,” she replied, and then she squeezed my hand and thanked me for reminding her.
I can feel Oliver’s body extending itself right past mine. When I transfer him from our bed at night to his, his feet keep hitting lower on my legs. He’s elongating. He’s making full sentences and becoming too cognizant — this morning he found a piece of candy from last year’s stocking at the bottom of it and almost convinced me he hadn’t found a thing, by way of his genius body language alone. When he opened a present this morning, he bellowed, “Ta-da…!” before stacking it up on the floor. He is two parts unbelievably annoying and three parts wonder and joy. He has made me feel like I’m suffocating and swimming with ease at the same time. I know a period is coming when I won’t feel this way anymore. He and I will distance ourselves from each other, per the natural course of time.
I thought Bev was crying last night because of loss. She has lost her husband fairly recently, and she has lost the home she was in for so many years, and she has lost going to sleep in a house where all four of her boys were sleeping at the same time, too.
But she wasn’t crying over loss. She was crying over privilege. She was overwhelmed at the privilege of sitting at a table surrounded by the beauty of her family. She was insanely proud and insanely honored and so happy to be present that her body shook from it all.
Of course, she is scared, too. The same way I’m scared. Loss and privilege are two sides of the same coin. They are the left and the right side of the pendulum. They replace each other — keeping time — over and over and over again.