I have not picked up a pen to write in weeks. Part of me wonders if I even remember how. Is the skill of writing like riding a bike, something you always remember how to do no matter how long it has been or is it more like Spanish, where you lose it if you don't use it? It's tough to say. Maybe it's both, if that's even possible.
I don't really know, nor do I really care because I am learning pretty words don't mean much without a pretty life.
Today, in broken English while riding a wobbly bike, I want to remind myself of this day, a day so full of wonder that it begs to be remembered, not in a fleeting instagram post or a facebook facade of perfection, but rather in the slow, patient, old-fashioned method of our ancestors who dipped pen in ink and traced letters in caligraphy on parchment paper.
Today is not a cheap day. It's a rich day, a full, ripe day that audibly warns me to not let it slip away without being noticed.
It's Wednesday. On the drive to pick up my mother from the medical rehab center where she has spent the last two weeks, I pass a field of cotton.
The wheels turn slowly on a green tractor as the land is being leveled. The old harvest dwindles and makes way for the new.
A winding road leads me through a tunnel of pine trees. Patches of sunlight break free between the branches. A kaleidoscope of wishes reminds me that hope is eternal.
I pull into the covered entry of the rehab center, the one with the maroon colored awning. A man wheels her belongings out on a dolly, a can of Pringles spills from a flimsy Winn Dixie bag. Her simple, grey zip up hoodie, is tucked in a floral beach bag. She has not been to the beach in years.
I don't know why I have a problem seeing all of her stuff being handled by strangers like she's just another patient, but I do. "Let me load everything," I say in an effort to seem helpful.
What I really mean is, "This is her stuff. This is my Momma. We've got her from here," but I do not say these things because I see her hugging the director and thanking her for her genuine care and help when she could not help herself. By her example, I do the same. Gratitude is easy today. It is November, and there are plastic pumpkins sitting on bales of hay in the front of the facility. Thankful and blessed reads the decorative hanger on top of the pile. Indeed, we are. Thankful and blessed.
On the way to her house, we drive slowly over every bump in the road. I think back to the tractor from earlier and the old land being leveled. It becomes my prayer for my Momma. New land. New opportunity.
My dad loads her into her wheelchair and pushes her across their concrete driveway. From a distance, I watch his back hunched slightly as he gently helps her from her wheelchair. Her arm grips his bicep that is no longer as strong as it once was. When did my parents become older? How was I too busy to notice?
He cradles her back as she struggles a bit to step over the small entry step to their house. I cannot say why but my mind is catapulted back to the day they were married. I wasn't alive to see it, but I wonder if he picked up her tiny frame and carried her over the threshold as they both squealed with delight at the thought of all the life ahead. My dad has never been a hopeless romantic, so I suspect the answer is no, but I know he's carrying her over it now. And maybe that is the time that counts the most.
Inside, she makes her way to the recliner. He drapes her in a brown fleece blanket and hands her four French fries. Then he sets up her bedside toilet. Maybe he is a hopeless romantic after all, and I simply couldn't see it.
He turns on the elecric fireplace to warm her feet, and they each decide it's time for a nap. She is on one couch sleeping quietly. He is on the other couch snoring. I am between the two of them quietly tapping out letters on a keyboard as feverishly as my fingers will dance. It feels like trying to catch a jackpot worth of quarters with only two hands.
It has been sixteen days since my mom has been home. I venture to say it is also the first time they have both rested in sixteen days. In twenty minutes, their grandsons will be here. There will be noise and laughter. Hugs and smiles. She will kiss them and tell them how much she loves them. She will ask them how school is going and what they want for Christmas. The boys will play ball in the front yard, and she will thank us again for everything when it is really her that I should be thanking.
This is wonder, and I am here for it.