Age eight or nine, I made my bed every morning with good girl flair. Pulled taut the sheets, uprighted the pillows, added throw pillows I'd latched myself using metal hook and colored yarn: Fuzzy shamrock. Fuzzy strawberry. Lined up half a dozen stuffed animals by size. Blue bunny and white lamb seated, I'd put one Little Golden Book at each stuffy’s foot so that while they were alone, they could at least enjoy the pretty pictures. Do you ever become aware of your own breathing? I’m doing it right now. My body knows to do it. My body knew to do it then too. It breathed using these exact same lungs, heart, brain. On that meticulous bed, my little soul breathed. I wanted to create order, to help the lonely animals feel better when I walked out the door, left them behind, to show that kindness truly existed. I wanted to be what they wanted, a well brought up daughter. Like a well brings up water. Like water, I wanted to be good.
Discussion about this post
No posts
I can relate. 🙏