Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that’s how we have to live.
– Haruki Murakami
I have a favorite tea cup, one that melds to my hand, glazed in earth-tone colors making it appealing to the eye. I cherish it. Love to put boiling water and loose Rice Pudding tea in it to steep. I am pleased, and, at times, restored.
But, as with other tea cups over the years, each special in their own right, in their own feel and coloring, they break or wear or pass on to another in need of a useful tea cup.
When my boys were babies, bouncing and making spit-bubbles, I’d play with their toes and fingers, tickling their bellies and wowing at the wonderment of them and their beauty.
Now they stand quite tall, their fingers longer than mine, and their toes no longer desirable to play with. My boys are amazingly beautiful and quick witted and loving, but they are not mine anymore, as they were when they were babies.
They are teens with promising lives to live and sharp minds to hone. I witness them from a distance, forever loving them, watching them, cheering them on, but I am no longer their one light. They now have many lights that light their way.
There are sweet moments when my husband’s eyes connect with mine, locking tight in love, seemingly without cracks, and, yet, the moment will pass and we’ll find ourselves disagreeing over directions or what to make for dinner.
There’s still love, just wrinkled love.
Wrinkles of hairline fractures, that if not mended and patched with “You may be right” or “I could have heard it wrong” could eventually, over time, rupture and split open. Marriage should have a disclaimer: Regular maintenance required, daily mending suggested.
That useful but not-always-a-want-to-listen-to saying, “this too shall pass” comes to mind.
Moments pass as I experience them, whether I’m fully intimate with them or not, along with all the things or accomplishments or aspirations that come with them.
The other week, thrift store shopping with friends, a sweater found and tried on, plopped in the wire basket to buy, is another thing that will not follow me when time really moves on.
Nothing will come, no money, no furniture, no clothes, no cars, no one will accompany me (as far as I know).
I’m pretty confident, what with all the archeological digs over the years, mummies bolstered with fine jewelry and gold for the journey to the other side that never followed them, that nothing of material worth will follow me either.
What I wonder about are the feelings, impressions, memories, stolen seconds of love and desire, unhinged laughter and stifling grief. Will they follow me, sear into my soul, cushion me for what’s to come, give me courage, strength, and remembrance of faith and love?
Curious, and one I won’t know for some time, I hope.
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