Do Not Laugh - Thoughts on Compliments, Selfies, and Psalm 139:14

My three and a half year old son walked into my bedroom as I finished combing my hair. Mentally, I was running through what remained of readying ourselves for the day. I was distracted and about to send him back out with instructions to brush his teeth so we could leave on time.

 

He cut me off with his words, "Mommy, you look beautiful. You should take a picture."

 

Immediately, a voice spoke in my head, "Do not laugh."

 

I had to close my mouth because that was the exact response I was about to make. I looked my son in the eye and smiled. I said, "thank you, peanut," and put my comb away.

 

He remained at my side, waiting. "Take a picture."

 

The voice was there again. "Do not laugh."

 

Don't laugh at his admiration for you. Don't dismiss the clarity with which he sees you; clarity that is fogged up in you by years of insecurities. I didn't laugh. Instead, I took the picture. He asked to see it. Satisfied, he gave me one more heart-stealing smile, then bounded away to see what his sister was up to elsewhere.

 

Honestly, I almost deleted the photo. What did I need it for? I saw the roundness of the belly where I'd love for it to be flatter; the softness of the arms where I wish they were toned. I saw the gray hairs I don't pull out anymore. I saw the migraine behind my eyes, and the thick glasses because I didn't feel like putting in my contacts when I could barely stand to have my eyes open in the daylight. I saw the awkward half-smile because selfies seem meant for younger, perkier people.

 

Why didn't I delete the photo? I didn't delete it because of a hunch that every mom ever caught off guard by their child's admiration could relate to the thoughts filling my head. I even had a feeling that the dads out there can relate to it all, perhaps when their children look at them with unwavering confidence in their strength and capabilities. I didn't delete the photo because, while the things I saw in it are real and true, the things my son sees are real and true as well.

 

I not only saved the photo, but decided to share it here because of Psalm 139:14, "I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; wonderful are your works, and my soul knows it well."

 

Years aged.

Extra pounds carried.

Hair grayed and thinned.

Body tired.

Pains and illnesses endured.

Patience lost.

Voice raised.

Mistakes made.

Weaknesses experienced.

 

None of these eliminate the truth my child sees and accepts about me, or your child about you: that I am, and you are, "fearfully and wonderfully made."

 

The next time you encounter that truth, whatever the source, don't laugh it off. Don't dismiss it or argue against it, mentally or aloud. Hear it. Be grateful for it. Let it sink in until you can say, "my soul knows it well."

Under Time's Thumb

We are perched on the peak of summertime. It is the start of the weeks of heaviest heat, with air that wets your skin when you exit the air conditioning. It is now, at the height, that the signals of summer's temporary condition begin appearing. The longest hours of daylight undetectably recede. The hayfields are cut and rolled into buffalo-sized bales. Cornstalks reach shoulder height and store's stock harvests of school supplies.

This time of year always, always brings restlessness. My spirit is swirled up in a mixture of urgency to savor now, and serene anticipation of the transition that is ahead. I hesitate to admit that autumn will be welcome on my doorstep, not wanting summer to think I wish it gone.

Is that the way of all things? All the things under time's thumb?

Maybe I play the comparison game too readily. When it's something so entirely out of my control as the movement of the seasons, does it matter which is better? Or which I prefer? All that matters is what is.

A to Z Flash Fiction: Bisou (Kiss)

B: Bisou (Fr: Kiss)
Photo Prompt: The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville, by Robert Doisneau

I sit at my usual table by the sidewalk, facing the Hotel De Ville. I drink my usual coffee, and take slowly paced bites of my usual croissant. People pass in their usual way, silent beside the street filled with noisy motor cars. All is as usual.

Then, it is not.

A couple appears. They are young, considerably younger than I. Pretty, but still blending with the stream of pedestrians. In front of the table beside mine, he stops. His arm is around her waist, so she stops too. He moves his arm to her shoulders, drawing her into his side as he dips his head toward her. Her graceful neck stretches, turns to match him. His lips meet hers, urgent and sincere. It is beautiful.

"The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville" by Robert Doisneau, 1950

It all happens in a matter of five seconds, maybe fewer. The kiss lasts as long, then his arm slides back to her waist and they walk on. Phantom smiles on their lips; a blush upon her cheekbones; and with no notice of the other persons in the flow that they rejoin on the sidewalk, they are gone.

My hand trembles around the porcelain coffee cup. The only thought in my mind slips through my lips in a whisper, "How long is it since I've been kissed like that? Have I ever?"

A memory flashes like a film reel. Yes, I have.

It is night, more than ten years ago. We walk beside the Seine. There is space between us, and then there is not. He takes my hand, pulls me in, and kisses me for the first time - the only time - for he is my friend and nothing more. His kiss is earnest. I feel his fingers tighten with mine.

I hear his voice in my head and I close my eyes to listen.

"I needed to do that," he says.

But I am too stunned to speak.

"Should I apologize?"

"No," I manage.

My fingertips rest on my lips, although I do not remember lifting my hand there. Every emotion, every sensation, returns to me, in the aftermath of those strangers' kiss. How had I forgotten?

No, I did not forget, but I had not remembered either.

I lift my coffee for a drink, my hands no longer shaking. A smile teases at my lips. I reckon it is a match for the smile the woman on the sidewalk wore after being kissed like that, after being kissed like I have been before.


*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.

A to Z Flash Fiction: Aspire

A: Aspire

"What do you aspire to be?"

The odd question echoed over the noise in Sasha's head.

Raina waited as patiently as a therapist.

Sasha waited too. She tucked her errant curls behind her ears. She crossed her legs under the table. She waited for an answer to come. The question made her want to laugh. Aspire? I'm not sure I remember the meaning of the verb. 

Raina finished waiting. "You know I love you, right?"

She nodded. "That's usually what you say before you tell me I'm a fool."

"You're a fool."

She did laugh a little then, and it felt like the first time she'd breathed today.

"You made me promise to tell you when you're being a fool, ever since you almost switched universities to follow that chump Carter."

"Carter was not a chump."

"Carter couldn't spell chump."

Sasha stared at her chicken entree, fighting a smile.

"His brain tree was more of a shrub."

There was no helping the laughter now. She caught her breath. "Mother of pearl, he was hot though."

Raina smirked over her glass of iced tea. Drops of condensation fell to the table as she took a drink.

They sat on the patio of their favorite pub. Sasha had called the emergency convocation over her dilemma. When in doubt, consult Raina. It'd been her policy since sophomore year - the year of the infamous Carter. Raina never failed her in the seven years since.

"So, my fool of a friend, whats your answer?"

Sasha paused, her fork hovering at her lips. "Answer to what?"

"What do you aspire to be?"

"That's  a job interview question."

Raina shook her head. The ends of her sleek amber hair swung in unison around the base of her neck. Her eyes moved from Sasha to the view across the street. A mist floated over the bay tonight, not thick enough to be called a fog. The oscillating lamp of the lighthouse cut through the mist to the open water. An empty fishing trawler, tied to the dock, bobbed on each swell and fall of the water in a hypnotic rhythm.

Her eyes still on the water, Raina said, "You asked me that question once. It was during finals week, first semester junior year."

"I did?" She couldn't summon the memory.

"It was during your annoying step-by-step planning phase."

She did remember that part. "I was not annoying," she objected even as she laughed knowingly.

Raina raised her eyebrows. "You planned everything. Everything. 'Nothing will happen if you don't make it happen!' That was your motto. It drove me crazy. One of the times I complained, you asked me what I aspired to be."

"I was clueless." Sasha shrugged.

"You were," Raina agreed without apology. "But you changed the course of my life."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not!"

Sasha took another bite. She watched her best friend, wondering what Raina was trying to convince her of with this claim. Raina was the poster girl for following your passions, naysayers be damned.

"I blew off your question but I couldn't get it out of my head over Christmas break. When I came back in January, I decided I'd had enough of the coasting I'd been managing since starting school. If you remember, that's when I switched over to the biomedical engineering program. So, yeah, changed the course of my life."

"I had no idea," Sasha said, mulling this over.

"Maybe you need to tap into that annoying, ambitious version of you from years ago. When's the last time you aspired to be what you actually want to be? That's all I'm asking. You don't even have to answer me, but promise you'll think about it as you make this decision."

"I promise."

"Good." Raina took another drink. Her voice still reflective, her eyes back on the mist over the bay, she said, "Carter really was hot. What do you think ever happened to him?"

Sasha lost her breath laughing.


*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.