Monday, July 13, 2009


I was surrounded by love last week. It came in different packages and sizes and sometimes felt like more than I could bear, but it was all love. And it was all good.

Midway Airport loved me. It must have, to be so worried about my health and hygiene. What other reason could there be for their announcements - every 5 minutes - reminding me to keep myself safe by washing my hands and covering my mouth when I sneezed or coughed. I decided not to be aggravated by the mind-numbing repetitiveness of it all and to take it as a sign that they cared. A lot. Often. Loudly. But, they cared.

Old friends loved me - they drove me to and from the airport without my having to ask. Volunteering to wait in the cell phone lot, to battle rush hour traffic, to interrupt their daily activities so that I didn't have to take a cab or public transit were nothing compared to the fact that they fed me, too. I'm not pleasant when I'm hungry and they knew that and took care of me, because they cared. Love involves knowing your history, too.

The Little Cuter's doorwomen (that's even more awkward than "chairwomen" but it's accurate) poured love all over me. Where was I coming from? How did I like the apartment? They watched as I waited for a cab in the dark, and held the doors for me and my packages and my suitcases and my very tired self. Their smiles reflected my own as we shared "aren't they wonderful" stories about the Little Cuter and our SIR; the love was palpable.

Hugging my kids when I haven't seen them for a while is possibly my favorite activity of all time. The familiar smell of her shampoo as I bury my face in the Little Cuter's hair never fails to slay me. Her hug is a strong, solid squeeze that lasts for a really long time. And we purr and sigh and rock a little, side to side, then pull away, look at each other, and start it all over again. There are always some tiny tears from my side, and her semi-scolding "MOM' when she sees them completes the package. She's right - we're together and I am loved.

I arrived on Mrs. K's 95th birthday and was invited to the dinner party. Grandchildren and Grandparents share a special love, and every "Gram" I heard warmed the cockles of my heart. It was an unconscious reflection of the attention lavished on the child in days gone by; now Mrs. K needed to be kept safe, and her granddaughter was right there, attentive but not hovering, respectful and careful and vigilant. It wasn't patronizing or infantilizing or dutiful - it was just love.

A bridal shower is all about love. It brings together friends and family and teammates and babysitters and the bride-to-be gets to show off all the trappings of her groom's affection without worrying about bragging or boasting. She's surrounded by people who love her and who want to get as close as they can to the love she's creating. The spatulas and the serving bowls and the cutlery and the linens and the flowers and the lingerie, in all their meticulously wrapped boxes and bags, were offerings at the altar of that love.

And after a week, leaving that love was, truly, almost more than I could bear.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Talk back to me! Word Verification is gone!