There are no broken pieces

We are tired; we have had the privilege of spending the day in the sunshine, to jump in a cold clear river out in the world, still far from people, the joy of basking like seals, the delectable sensation of water and air and sunshine.

Emotions swirl inside me, flipping wildly from gratitude to love to joy to resentment to desolation to the ecstatic fizziness of exhilaration to despair to indignation to glee.

It’s normal. It’s my birthday.

But here we are, at the other end of a day that has been filled. Just filled and is now winding down. Part sunburnt, part refreshed, mostly ravenous and just a little more than a lot frustrated with this new recipe, I toil over the stove.

He still holds his head high, and so far, I’ve only had one (pretty joyful) cry.

But we are on the brink, it seems.

And suddenly, in a moment of whirlwind chaos, in an abrupt spin, the entirety of our food goes flying—
all over the floor: chunks of butternut squash tumbling headfirst under the keyboard, pieces of onion and flecks of oil and water flung everywhere.

Not much fazes him. But I watch his face crumple.

I feel very much at fault but at the same time I feel like I’ve broken through the top of the wave. I’ve crested the surface of the deep seaweed tide of salt and despair and irritation. And all is quiet in my head and in my chest. The world enters slow motion. I ignore the food and the floor and the food on the floor and the hunger and the vexation that lingers. His eyes are hollow and echo with apology.

I put my arms around his dismay. I hold on tight to his hope.

In complete silence we mop up the floor. In calm resolution I start again. Onion, olive oil, heat.

Then I step away from the kitchen and I pull him with me to the floor. And we curl around our broken pieces until they wrap together again, a shimmering conch shell once more.

This is all that matters I keep saying over and over This is all that matters

The space of the present moment and only the present moment. The thick and heady comfort of our home.

The depthless, fathomless well of love that pours out of us and into the other.

with joy and confetti,

Alexa