Every Friday we unite for five minutes to write on one word. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second-thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on reach.
Go.
It's the middle of the night,
and I'm awake again.
Maybe it's because I'm stressed.
Maybe it's because I have an event coming up and I'm running through all the details in my mind,
or maybe it just ended and I'm worried about all the ways to make it better.
Maybe it's because our house hasn't been my calming place for months because of the construction,
or maybe I'm just so worried about all the unknowns with the construction.
Maybe it's because I have MS and of course they found a new lesion just now, just when we are our most tired,
just when the house is at its worst and we are holding on by a hair.
And maybe it's because the only thing that they can give me is a terrible round of steroids that keeps me up,
makes me jittery
and angry
and cry
and quiet
and shake.
No matter the reason, it's the middle of the night and you must have heard me stirring, for hours, and you reach for me.
And that brings about a sense of calm and peace that you will never know.
We're walking out of a store,
and we're happy.
You did well in there and I know that you and stores don't mix.
Most kids and stores don't mix.
And as we're walking into that parking lot, your five year old hand will reach for my hand and you give it a kiss and look up to me and say,
"I love you mom"
and that, is the greatest feeling in the world.
It's first thing in the morning,
and you are dying to get up.
"Somebody, somebody I want out"
and as I walk in,
in the littlest two year old voice I hear a whisper,
"hi mom"
as your arms reach out and you say,
"up please".
And as I scoop up that reach, I ask for a hug, you know, like the bears do.
And your squeeze can melt away the coldest of days.
Stop.
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