Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

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Ping!

I must have knocked it out when putting on my scarf. I began my walk and noticed my earbud was missing. I retraced my steps in the driveway. Nothing. In the entry. Not there. I looked in the closet. Nothing. I decided to go on my walk and search again when I got home. Off balance for an hour, I returned to search. My phone said it was nearby. It asked me, would I like to ping it. Sure. Ping, ping, ping. I could hear a faint sound, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. It led me into the closet. Still nothing on the floor. But it kept pinging. There was a duffle bag sitting there. Surely it hadn’t found its way into the tiniest of slits for the pocket. I picked it up. It kept pinging. I opened each pocket. Rifled my hand through each crease. Shook it. And there it was. What an invention. This pinging! Simply marvelous, my brain shouted. My heart only nodded, smiling, thinking, I already knew. 

I feel it each morning. The first thing I see is the painting of my mother dancing. Ping! My grandfather leaning in. Ping! Grandma smiling. Ping! The grandkids at the beach – Ping! Ping! Each leading me to the desired destination. Each leading me home. 

They say follow your heart. I believe it’s true. I used to go only by feel, but now I hear it as well! The marvelous ping of my heart!

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Immeasurable.

I always marveled at how she just threw things in with such confidence. Never following a recipe. She seemed like a “Kitchen Super Hero” as I stood next to her, apron high, trying to work my way up to timid, at best. 

They called me shy. I like to think that I was just taking it all in. And there was so much to take in, there in my Grandma Elsie’s kitchen. I cupped one chubby hand to her chubby knee, and I watched. 

It was a dance really. From cupboard to table to stove to table again. I kept time as best I could. Losing my face in her apron, giggling behind the flower-print pocket, the pocket that was never without a Kleenex. I couldn’t learn the cups or tablespoons, so I focused on the dance. And just like the song played, I could have done this all night.

I started baking when I came to France. The language was such a surprise, I had forgotten about the measurements. What were these liters and grams? Celsius? There was nothing left to do but dance. I Elsied my way through. Tossing and twirling. And with the help of a lot of French butter, I must admit, it’s delicious!

Someone has always made a path. Maybe not in stone or pavement, but certainly in heart and spirit. The gifts we are given, just like an Elsie recipe, are immeasurable. 

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Packet to packet.

I have carried the remaining one or two tissues left in the pocket pack for over a year now. That means passing through three allergy seasons, yet I can’t bring myself to use them.

She followed me around for two hours, this woman from Anderson Funeral home. During the visitation before my mother’s funeral, I wept and hugged and bent and wept some more. And she was there, this small, gray haired woman, hired, certainly, but it felt sincere. It felt like she was truly there to follow my trail of tears. And she did her job well. I was never without a tissue. She began handing them one by one, and then switched from packet to packet. 

I could have picked her out of a lineup that first day, but her image is fading. I don’t remember if she had glasses. I think she had glasses. She was wearing a dress. Maybe a blazer. A dress with a blazer? Lipstick for sure. She wasn’t tall. Perhaps at my shoulders. But it felt like she was lifting me. 

As with all grief, supporters move on. They have to. It is natural. It is necessary. We all know it. We all know it, that is, until it’s you that is grieving. And the grief changes shape. It doesn’t require the same kind of attention. I don’t need her to follow my trail, but I need to not forget. As I watch the fading image of the gray haired woman, I bring to life the stories of my mother. And tears of pain turn to tears of tenderness, tears of joy, never to be wiped away. No, these tracks of love and laughter must remain. 

I reach into my purse for my lipstick, or my signature fragrance, and I smile. I touch the tattered plastic and know that I am ok. So grateful for those who walked with me, for those who walk with me still. I mention it in hopes that these words will follow those who need it. That the stories will catch your tears, will lift your smile. And the face that follows will change from mine to yours to theirs, and we will all be there, for each other. Heart to heart. Packet to packet.

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