I suppose it’s a lot to do with rhythm with the ones we love.
Shari, Jan and I became best friends at Washington Elementary because of the jump rope. A simple line that connected us. How seamlessly we could move from our positions. Two at each end of the rope singing, one jumping in to the words of the song. As the song came to an end, the one in the middle would jump out and grab the plastic handle of the rope, and maintain the twirl, while the one who let go ran around, timed the spin with outstretched hands, and jumped in. The song of this playground friendship continued, never missing a beat.
My mother loved all words. And she gathered me in, with poems, prayers and promises. Pillowed beside me, she read aloud each night. As I gained strength from the lessons of Mrs. Bergstrom’s first grade teachings, I began to read along. And the lifelong practice continued.
When she loved a phrase. A line. A paragraph from a current book, she wrote it down on a yellow sticky note and hung it by the phone — at the ready for our next conversation. The words would say, this is so me, or so you, or so us. Each letter deepening our connection.
I started a new book a couple of days ago — “Same as it ever was”, by Claire Lombardo. Not long in, she had me wanting a sticky note. One woman is asking a clearly troubled woman in tears, how she is, and the woman stumbles out the word fine, and the other replies, “I wonder about the accuracy of that statement.” Such delight! I wanted a landline, a sticky pad and my mother. I could say I have none of these, but that’s not entirely true. I have this format. I have these words. And I share them with you. I know my mom is laughing heavenly, and the music continues, as I maintain the twirl.
