Letters

I was laid up on the couch nursing my right knee, thanks to a fall on the corner of Commercial Street.   I didn't trip on anything and I wasn't pushed, and the wintry Provincetown sidewalks were bare. I simply rolled my ankle for no apparent reason. It wasn't hard to silently scold myself for falling and again later, for resting. I repeatedly reminded myself it's not as though I had deliberately flung myself onto the sidewalk as a way of buying some couch time, but there's always a louder voice in me that says Hurry-hurry up, Stuff to do, and Get busy. I am certain any pause in my routine is a sure sign of victory for laziness.

I had sent Meredith to the Post Office to get the mail and when she came back, she handed me two envelopes.  The familiar handwriting was such a friendly distraction from my knee (aka mental) quandary.   I read their letters once, and then again.  My parents write beautifully, both in form and in content. Their handwriting is as much a part of me as their voices and hands are.  And as I read their words, I heard their voices--their laughter as well as their loving inflections.  I read them again in celebration.  I was filled with unexpected gratitude that they are alive and well, and that these letters could conjure their immediacy.  Here I was, propped on the couch with one knee up, holding the essence of my parents and all their liveliness in my hands.  It was quite a moment.  I get afraid to look ahead--I simply can't.  But I look ahead just enough to know that the rhythmical spacing of my mother's script and the flare of my father's loops are quiet victories of age and time.  Their voices are vibrant to me.  I cherish the simplicity of these exchanges, and that I can touch them.

It later occurred to me that my quandary about laziness was just insignificant chatter.  What really mattered was before me in black and white, with loops and rhythm, and love and history.  This is what matters. Don't hurry anything, please.