We make up songs. A jumpsuited man trimming hedges with a chainsaw stops to answer Fable's "What is that?" with a tutorial on how the chain turns and severs. A woman in a purple hoodie joins our silly dance as we wait at a crosswalk, cementing Fable's belief that the morning is intentionally full of her favorite color, her preferences the axis of a magically accommodating swirl of a world.
Here is what we share:
The frustration tears. The hot, humiliating tears that start to burn when we are afraid or uncomfortable or feel like we've been caught being less than perfect. The betraying, infuriating, soul revealing tears. I hate those tears.
You are learning to ride your bike.
CLICK THROUGH FOR DISCOUNT CODE. Can we chat for a moment about tall girl problems? I realize it seems like a petty complaint, but man, there are so many cute clothes in the world that just don't come close to working for my 5'11" frame. Pants land in all kinds of strange places, jumpers and rompers - ha! - you can imagine how well that goes, crop tops really become something closer to long bras... the struggle.
That prideful will of ours? It will serve you and it will break you it. You will be its hostage as often as it will make you a hero. It is a wild and noble, terrible and destructive thing. It's the balance in you that will walk away from crippling shame and failure and turn right back to meet it the next day. It holds no weight and record of pain. It does not bruise or burn. The same core that allows you to risk crashing boldly into love a thousand times will also forget to remember the stove was hot when you touched it.
I think of the roundness of the word off my lips when whispered to Fable, the full-bodied us-ness that sweetens its core. I think of the history fluttering like photographs off the sound when I say it to my mother, the growing pains and old stories and raw holy knowns. I think of the lightness it carries offered like a balloon to a new friend on a dark day, the weight of it surrounded by weeping, the violent stubborn might of it when I am at the end of what I want to endure. I have used the word love as a weapon and balm, as a promise, a solution, a proposition, and a simple fact of my being.
I have owned love. Love has owned me.