bids for connection
MAY edition
On a chilly spring morning, my youngest child came downstairs, no longer asleep and not quite awake. I covered her in a blanket we bought on travels decades ago, before she was born, while visiting friends in Austria, when the world was our oyster, when my joints were forgiving, when splurging on a locally made artisanal wool blanket, felt insane and important. I covered her in it, and reminded her of that story, to which she replied: This is a bad blanket, I don’t like how it feels. Which in another life I would have taken personally, but in this timeline I just laughed. People want what they want. She owes nothing to my stories. That blanket can be for me.
A member of art club asked requested slide shows from those who've recently traveled overseas. A few days later, John showed up prepared. Bring back the slide show, I say. The in-person grid, the real-life reels. Bring back sharing where you've been because it shows us who you are. Bring back cheering loudly for each other face-to-face, bring back being weird in a room full of weirdos. John showed us Ireland, we showed him how much we want to know him. John showed us his point of view, we showed him that heckling is a love language
My oldest child pushes us. Pushes me. Watches for my weaknesses, which I telegraph openly by the way, and then takes aim. With a smile. This child asked if I wanted to go biking, knowing that I don't. I answered yes, which this child knew I would. We had fun, of course we did, we can't help ourselves. When we are in the woods when we are moving when we are pushing each other. When the mosquitoes haven't come yet. When we are together.
My cat came to comfort me when I was crying. Or, that's what I told myself because it's charming to consider. I'm smart enough to know that she's just probably curious, as cats are wont to be, and that I'm the person that feeds her. Was she asking if I'm ok or was she reminding me to keep feeding her? And honestly, what's the difference. Because the act of care breeds love and love breeds curiousity and everyone cries sometimes so why not bring a friend.
In winter at a birthday party we arrived on the topic of book clubs and how, seemingly inevitably, they rarely foster a deep discussion of books. More of a club of people who read books, less a club for discussing what books are. In spring we met. We, a room of overachievers and high-performing sisters, stayed on task. We brought notes. We discussed characters and themes and meanings what we liked and what we didn't like and it's amazing what you can learn about each other when you talk about fictional characters in fictional worlds in a very real living room with a very real cheese board.
