What I want to write about is the luxury I have, on the weekends, of getting tired of her. Getting frustrated. Of the loving arguments and head butts that prepare her for the complexity of love, the security of forgiveness. Of the time we spend entwined, not playing with toys but playing with each other, making noises, laughing, poking at each other’s faces. The way her eyes communicate such purity of emotion, the joy so joyful, the sadness so dang sad.
I want to write about her vision of the future. “When I get older I’m going to have a kitty and a scooter and I’m going to eat Kimchi.” She’s so brave and definite, there is no doubt, no second guessing, she sees a picture of the world and it will wait for her, this her in the future, this surety and decisiveness, this wonderful sense of order and what will be.
What I want to write about is how brave she is, everyday, navigating this world of constantly shifting meaning, asking “What is a daydream?” and “What’s in the middle of a rock?” That there is nothing missed, no mystery unexplored, and any answer given will suffice.
What I want to write about is how this is the stuff of my life. This is what is smashed between the work and the bills and the dirty, dirty dishes and the piles of wrinkled clean laundry waiting. How each moment I am present I am thinking remember this, hold on to this, and as quickly as that thought is thought all my fears squeeze in through the door and crowd it out.
This is what I want to write.
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