Juxtaposition

A slightly labored breath escaped the tiny mouth of the newborn baby boy I cradled gently in the crevasse of my arms. “You’ll figure it out little buddy,” I thought as I realized how strange it must be to learn something like breathing. Weird and wonderful to think that 48 hours prior breathing wasn’t even on his radar. When his tiny wrinkled hand slipped around my finger and gripped it tightly, the progression of my thoughts went somewhere I wasn’t expecting. Time warped into a different hospital room with an equally wrinkled hand wrapped tightly around mine, all fingers inter woven.

His breaths were labored also but not because it was a new phenomenon.  No, as he reached his final cap, his allotted number so to speak each one became more exerted, deliberate, and full of intention. “You’ll figure it out grandpa,” I thought, as I realized how strange it must be for him to begin to fully know that time is short, finite here.

The juxtaposition is eerily similar for me. I remember tracing the lines of their faces with my eyes, taking in each feature, trying desperately to etch the gravity of the situation in my mind forever because moments like these don’t just happen every day. Feeling my heart swollen with emotion; immense adoration hidden in the warmest chamber of my heart.

Remembering now, I can’t help but wonder if their thoughts spun in the same direction. I can’t help but wonder that in the birth and death of the day, if we all desire little more than to grip on to the tangible love in front of us, to hold tightly to that which brings comfort and peace, to be cradled with affection, to breathe in and out. 

Home

Prompt 3

Home in the simplest form is the ranch style building on west 7^th in a tiny town that no one really knows. All 500 residents know that’s where I grew up. It’s where I cut my teeth, climbed trees and rode my bike barefoot. It’s the familiar side door I always entered through to find mom cooking something delicious and dad relaxing, sweaty and greasy after a long day at the shop. Even though I haven’t lived there for going on 6 years now it’s still the first thing that comes to mind when I think of home. I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever transition that association to the home I’ve built with my husband, the little bungalow on Arlington St. Maybe there is an equation involving years lived in, mortgage payments or persons shared with but maybe not. I know that I sleep better there with my head on my fancy pillow and our bodies curled just right, but that doesn’t make it home does it?

I have a love/hate relationship with cheesy anecdotes. For example that “home is where the heart” s___. I don’t believe that for a second, but to say that home has nothing to do with the heart would be foolish. Home is so much more than a building or my favorite place to sleep. Home is all the little affections that put my mind at ease. Home is the arms of a faithful friend, where I can claim sanctuary and plead temporary insanity. Home is lying next to him on the couch knowing that I don’t have to say or do anything to sustain our perfect harmony, my sweet contentment. Home is being a black sheep in this whole walk of life and still feeling a deep sense of belonging. Home is my refuge, my haven, whatever that might look like on a given day. Home is wholeness.