It was on the deacon’s bench, under the picture window, where she liked to read the most. The words tucked safely between arm rests and the light reflected all meaning. She bookmarked, never dog eared, these library books. When she reached a line that sat beside her, she walked it to the note pad underneath the land line, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and wrote it down with quote marks. She Scotch taped it next to the phone and read it to me on the next call.
We were always connected with words. My mom was the first person to read to me, and so far, the last. What an intimate act, this reading of words. Because I knew them. I knew where they sat. To read them now is to be right beside them, her. Beside her. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders that melts gently into my heart. Word by word, my soul remains filled.
I began writing when I was five. Maybe it was because the words were placed within me. Maybe it was a love shared from birth. Maybe it was because it was a part of the tucking in at bedtime. Maybe I knew it was my way to the deacon’s bench.
We all travel different paths. We have different interests and likes. I can’t tell you which ones to take, but I will tell you this — be intimate in your journey. Daily. Tell your best friend, “You’re my best friend.” Tell your loved ones that they are indeed loved! Give your heart freely. Those that are deserving, have already saved a place for you. Don’t be afraid to take the seat beside them.
