I climb onto a folding chair and reach up, at one point balancing only on my right leg, both arms extended. I tape a string to the ceiling and when I let go, watch as the sparkling snowflake at the other end of the string dangles in the sky of my apartment.
In the background, Christmas music blares, and if this is your first time tuning in, you would catch the joy and routine, but you’d miss the wonder.
Look at my body, holding.
Look at this hip, gluesticked together, helping to hold up a whole sky. Remember when it was snapped in prison? How they said it wasn’t? How they said the human controlled the hip, so the human did?
The human fought a fire, hundred of pounds of fire hose resting on cracked hip, boots sliding against mud, holding.
The human living and sliding and fighting on the cracked hip for years. Holding and balancing because she had to.
How there was finally surgery and a revolt of clot and stroke, and then more surgery through a pandemic, and a dinosaur cane and specialty shoes and a physical therapist who crosses his arms like he will wait a million years for each next step.
And now this, the next step, another season.
Holding from love, not fight.
Watch me glitter the whole sky.
I was thinking this morning about those moments in a long running series, when a small innocuous thing happens and it is deeply meaningful if you’ve watched prior episodes or read the other books. I don’t know if there’s a word for this type of moment, but I love them. Sometimes, I think I forget to pay attention to them in real life. I looked back in my last week and tried to think of a moment that fit the bill, knowing I would find one, because that’s how life is.
Everything feels miraculous when you really think about what it took to bring us to the moment.