Jodi Hills

Sometimes my life seems so familiar, I could tell you the next word, sentence. And while that is comfortable, I remind myself, that is never my favorite book. But to train my real life heart and brain to have the same reaction — an exuberant “I never saw that coming” — this is the real trick, I suppose. I’m trying to get better. To see the hiccups and waywardness as, “Oh, this is a book I would read!”

I remember the first time I had a crush on the carry-out boy at Olson’s Super Market. His moves so certain and careful as he bagged our embarrassing groceries in the paper sacks. Him holding my boxed breakfast cereal, I felt exposed and vulnerable and wonderful all at once. Being brand new, as they say, I had no explanation as to what was happening.

It was only two days before that I was on the playground at Central Park. Too old for the spinning ducks, still young enough to succumb to the trepidation of the teeter totter. My friend, with later explanation of a bee hovering, jumped off their side when I was in mid air. Funny how everything slows at that point. Reaching to grab on to a cloud, my stomach rose into my throat, which was almost enjoyable for that millisecond, and then I crashed into the dirt.

Standing in the checkout line at Olson’s, my stomach began to rise.

At school the following day, there he was, racing up beside me on the stairs. He turned to smile at me — a glorious millisecond. And then grabbed the new girl’s hand. A puff of dirt smoked around my fall.

And would I have changed things if I knew? Probably not. Is it worth it? I would say yes. YES! Excuse me, a cloud is just within reach.

They probably think they are sharing with us. Maybe they get upset when I pick the harvest to make jam, but I doubt it. They have a better view of things, and I don’t mean simply sight. 

It’s easy to measure the haves and have-nots with money. With things. But there is a larger currency at play. There is an absence of heart. Of soul. Not because someone else got a larger share. No one’s dream fulfilled takes away your dream, nor takes the fruit from your tree. The sky is not filled with, “but she got,” and “he gets to”…no, the blue flutters with hope on wings. 

It was my grandfather who taught me first. Whenever I felt worry closing in, he told me to focus not just on something else, but someone else. At first hearing, I thought he didn’t understand. So I foolishly continued. “But my cousins got bows and arrows from Target, and we don’t have a Target, and I don’t…” “So go play with them,” he said. I watched my feet hit the dirt in the driveway. They had everything, I thought, and now I was supposed to give them my attention as well. At first I simply walked after the wayward arrows. (Because they weren’t aiming at anything, only watching the beautiful flight.) Then I began running them back. It wasn’t long before Shawn gave me a turn. A fling of the winged wood. Hope and love and friendship and joy danced in the air. And I had everything.

I look around our world. We seem to be spending far too much time kicking the dirt. 

It was his signature phrase. I knew quite early on, if my grandfather began to speak, he would end with, “and stuff…” I assumed it was because he wanted an out. An early exit. He wasn’t a big talker, like Grandma Elsie. It could have been the farm report. The forecast. Last night’s card game recap. A sensitive family matter. They all ended with “and stuff…” 

But that’s the thing. I see it now. It wasn’t an ending. It was his lifeline extended. And if you look it up by definition, these ellipses, they are soft pauses to the continuation. He could see that the story would always live on. And he offered a way to carry it. So I grab ahold of each dot. And begin again. The stories live on, holding, gathering and passing along the most precious stuff.