One hardship of living without my parents is the pangs of regret which mark many moments of the day with uncomfortable barbs. finding a ball of wool from the shrug i began to knit for mom; donating the guitar i waited too long to send dad – if you live in this landscape with me, you know that anything and everything can be imbued with a glow of presence that is palpable.
this is not a feeling of nostalgia. in fact, it is the exact opposite. like a new human using her eyes for the first time, i see people, possessions, even thoughts which have been lifelong companions, from a perspective i never imagined. the full consequence of seemingly minor things is, at last, unavoidably clear.
what has happened is a birth of sorts. not in a good way that involves party hats, but not all bad either. another me has emerged, who wants to remember the way things were, and transform them into something entirely new at exactly the same time. i am motivated to keep working, keep scraping away at what i see, by fear; fear that this vision soon will fade, fear that i may squander the only ransom my parents’ lives could possibly purchase.
because, what is now obvious to me, is what my parents wanted me to know, all my life, with all their love: despite my hard headed arguments to the contrary, every molecule of my very life is beautiful and every moment, worth living.