Remember

Closing the nightstand drawer, I hear them rattle.  Those little white enameled dentin souvenirs sorted and encapsulated in 35mm film canisters. They capture my thoughts in a time gone by, a time of innocence and youth.  Teeth.  Some of them fell out while playing on the soccer field, some in beds while dreaming, one while biting into a cob of corn, and many more in various other places.  These treasures went under pillows with anticipation of an exchange, the bestowment of gifts. 

I stop and grab one of the four canisters, and sit on my bed.  The lid pops and I pour the collection into my palm.  So small, so fragile are the baby gems.  I take my finger and roll them around.  How many years ago did I file these?  Fourteen?  More? Less?  Five children create quite a collection.  And as I consider the ages at which these were donated, my heartstrings tighten and breath escapes my chest.  Most are as small as a pea. 

             I close my eyes and imagine embracing the little nugget of a person fitted with these.  Four years old?  That’s when most of my children began to drop baby teeth and gaps became the mark of progress.  Oh, those were much different times. 

The most difficult decisions were whether to wear the Thomas the Train or Blue’s Clues underwear.  School consisted of reading an Amelia Bedelia book and drawing stick figures with heads.  “This is you, Mommy.”

“How beautiful.  What’s this?”

“That’s the dog, and that’s the cat, and here’s Daddy!  Daddy’s head is really big,” he said as he held his miniature arms arced up in the air to demonstrate how round and high Daddy’s head really was.  No matter that we owned no dog or cat, this was the perfect family in a little boy’s mind, and luckily, he didn’t miss drawing in his siblings also.

These were the days when little ones would look up at the quarter moon and ask how it got broken.  And when little fingers touched your cheeks and a sweet small voice said, “I love you," your heart melted.

“I love hearing you say that.”

“Do you want me to say it again?”  I giggle.  Yes.  Always. 

Then there was the time two little preschoolers came running up the porch stairs covered in… what is that? Poop?  Well, in their defense, there was no TV and they were sent outside to get creative. To a couple of young boys, there is nothing better than stomping and squishing the poop piles in the neighbors yard.  Watch out, Mario.

Memories always flood when I take the time to open the canister and look.  Like an Ebenezer Stone, my collection sends me back to a point in time where I am reminded to give thanks.  My children’s teeth piled become a memorial, a prompting to consider the gifts I have in each of them.  Heaven touches earth when babes say “I love you” and children cuddle you, and when a keepsake rushes these musings to the forefront of your attention.  And heaven continues to touch earth in the bond of tossing a football, and messing with the man-boy’s hair, in driving lessons, and late night conversations. I am reminded to move into beauty, to allow my thoughts to be captivated by it, to allow fondness to reclaim my affections, and my children to be cherished. 

Funny how such tiny things can evoke such warmth in a soul and I am revived.  I am awakened to the wonder of childhood and the love of family.  A whisper has reached my ears, and it says, remember.

Mood in Writing

It's funny how mood affects writing.  A busy mind or a decision making week can work its way into anything I write.  Sometimes it's upbeat, and at other times, morbid.  We all walk through those times, so as a writer I am learning to appreciate every mood.  It makes things real and allows others to relate.  I was working on writing about a color last week in the first person, and given my week and where I sat when I began writing, this is what came out.

Blah.  I can be a warm color under iridescent lights, but in florescent I’m just clammy.  I’m as clammy as the patients under my influence, laying on gurneys, waiting for their various procedures.  Beige, the pale yellowish brown color, is given many names to cover its non-descript, emotionless state.  Buff, sand, khaki, coffee, camel, fawn and a few of my favorites, biscuit, and oatmeal, of which the former, patient’s want to upchuck and the latter will blend into the wall upon expulsion.  I’m called ecru though, which is just another word for, you guessed it, beige.

Lacking any distinctive features, hospitals and medical facilities are slathered with ecru.  They’re afraid to paint a mood.  Is this a happy procedure, such as an ultrasound of a new, healthy baby?  Is this a distressing procedure, such as a test to see what ghastly malady is afflicting?  No one wants to set the mood, and no one wants to offend it either.  So here I am, to offer you…nothing.  I am faceless and unremarkable, but with whatever you may be experiencing on your next visit to the doctor, I’ll be benign to your disposition, whatever that may be.  And hopefully, that kindness is exactly what you need.