Firsts and Seconds

Why is the second of something less fulfilling than the first?

"How many potatoes do you want?" I asked my husband.

"Two." I put them both in the microwave.

We ate.

The second is never as precious as the first.

Potato

The first: hot, steamy, and starchy

The second: hot, filling, and full of starch

Snow

The first: white, fresh, and exhilarating

The second : white, draining, and full of work

Kiss

The first: expectant, affirming, and new

The second: expectant, hopeful, and full of knowledge

The second is not second in what it is.

       It is second in what we know about it. 

Holding Words Close

Yesterday I read Jason Reynolds' Twitter post:

Oh, young people. If the frayed and tired elders

only knew how amazing you are.

If they could only hear your feet on the pavement,

your voices at the door of change.

If they could only remember themselves.

Thank you.

I read it again.

And again.

Then I copied it.

This small piece of writing took me by surprise - that such powerful, beautiful prose could be in a snippet on Twitter. 

Tweeted out, just like that. 

I want to hold these impactful words close, for just a while.  

A long while.

Magnified Days

Every year I have a birthday.

And everything is magnified on that day.

If, by some chance, I don't get a "Happy Birthday" within the first 10 words of my husband's or daughter's utterances in the morning, I feel hurt. On other days, we greet each other with a simple, "Coffee's good."

Everything is magnified on your birthday.

On that day, a card from my brother seems to beam as it takes a place of honor on the kitchen counter. On any other day of the year, his card would have been a delightful surprise, but would have been tucked away in a drawer shortly after I had read it.

Everything is magnified on your birthday.

When there is bickering at my birthday dinner, it seems the evening is ruined. On any other day, a petty argument would be sloughed off.

But everything is magnified on your birthday.

Some days...

Some days

I don't want to write 

about my own life

for an audience.

Some days

I just want to write

for me.

Coffee and Accidents

I was reading the news this morning and noticed a headline:

"Reaching for coffee cup leads to three car accident." 

The woman who caused this accident didn't wake up that morning and say to herself "I won't reach for the coffee this morning." If you bring coffee in your car, you will reach for it.

Coffee is different from phones, however. Phones are not usually brought into our cars just for texting, or searching the web. Coffee, on the other hand, is usually brought into the car to be drunk.

Unfortunately, this woman reaching for coffee could have been me. Many mornings I grab my lunch bag, my work bag, my workout bag, and my purse, and balance the coffee in my hand, with the four bags dangling from my forearms.

I narrowly escape the retaining walls that brush on my side as I try to get into the car. Three bags go in the back, but my purse and my coffee stay with me and ride in the prime front seat alongside the me.

"If I ever get distracted, before the car veers, I will just drop my coffee. I'd rather spill coffee than get into an accident," I think. But I know that's not true.

I have juggled this morning circus event for many years. I have grown to understand that the brain doesn't think logically to drop the coffee if there is a problem. My brain sends the message to my arm, then my hand, then my fingers, to hold onto the coffee. And my eyes follow.

The woman who reached for her coffee cup has probably had a similar self-conversation before leaving home. She probably simply took her eyes off of the road, looked for the coffee, leaned over, and the wheel of the car went with her. There could have been a thousand scenarios that might have unfolded in reaching for that coffee. Thankfully no one was hurt, but this was a reminder to me to slow down, juggle less, and leave the coffee behind.

A metaphor for my life/work balance.

Afternoon Arrival

I walk in the basement.

            Silence.

I shut the door softly.

            Stillness.

I take off my too-loud boots.

            Soundless.

I slip up the stairs to the kitchen. 

            Snoring.

I open my computer.

           Snoring.

           Snoring.

I begin to slice.

New Neighbors

I love the cycles of a neighborhood.

When we moved on to our street with the houses standing side by side, there were babies to the left of us, and babies across the street. We had one as well. Every other house on our street held a baby in its rooms. 

Our backyard neighbors were an elderly couple whose family visited often. We called each other regularly to say how we noticed the backyard visitors, the sprinkler was on, and...how was everything, anyway?

Now the babies are grown. Some are married, some are living at home. Most are independent. Our backyard neighbor became a widow, then moved to a nursing home. The backyard is so quiet. The clothesline stands empty, with lines dangling, calling for clothing.

A new family, and a new baby, entered the rooms of the house across the street. I know the house well. My children played in those rooms. We have been to dinner in the dining room, and roasted marshmallows in the back yard together. I babysat siblings while a new baby was born to the neighbors and friends who had lived there before.

I was given the honored tour of the home by this young family. The dad carried the new baby in his arms as we walked. Like each of us who moves into a new space, the couple talked about how "one day we might put a window here...," and "I'd really like to redo the bathroom..." 

The house is their home now, and holds for them the future and dreams of their time there. New memories will be created, though the old ones will always remain, and be added to, as the neighborhood cycles through again.