She walks down the long expanse of sidewalk, squinting into the sun, holding a pile of heavy books as I sit idling in the van. I remember how I used to push her in the Little Tikes bike with the long handle down a sidewalk like this one, only in Phoenix.
Her sucking on a pacifier with that blond wispy hair, those tiny fingers curled around the handlebar, in the yellow print dress to her ankles. Our daily trip to the mailbox. The way she smiles behind the pacifier. Seems like yesterday and then so long ago.
And I remember that night eleven years ago. When I went to bed early after the kids fell off to sleep. How tired I was back then when life seemed endless, rest a figment of the imagination.
How I awake blurry eyed to my husband running through the bedroom. A candle left burning in the bathroom for light. It melts, cracks the mirror it flickers on, drips hot wax into the trash can laying beneath. How what lays inside starts to smolder, flame up just as he enters the smoke filled room.
Remember how God spared us. How he prompted my husband to come to bed when he did before the whole room engulfs in flames. I remember how he thanks God over and over with hand on his forehead, then holding his chest. This knowing the gravity of what could’ve been just seconds later.
As my little girl who grows into a woman crawls inside the van, she remarks, “The sun makes me cry. I need sunglasses when it is bright like this.”
“Yes, I know. The Son – that brightness – it makes me cry too.”
Today I join this writing community for Five Minute Friday with the prompt, Remember. Writing briefly from the overflow of the heart. For fun, for love of the sound of words, for play, for delight, for joy and celebration at the art of communication.
For only five short, bold, beautiful minutes. Unscripted and unedited. We just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. Won’t you join us!