March 6, 2017

I will teach my daughter to take large gulps of happiness, huge bites, gobble it all up.

To open her hands and toss cheer up into the air like confetti, to scream with glee, to laugh, to know the volume of joy — to know, how like air, love will rush in to fill the shape of what contains it

Because happiness, happiness is the only thing that makes the heart larger.

And she will believe that her happiness grounds her, keeps her steady as she throws her arms wide open sharing her heart with the world like it will never be rejected, even if she will be. She will also believe that she will know how to fly.

She will always know the light of the sun, the moon, and the stars on her face even if she falls into the holes her mother haunts. And know how to climb out, because she can see in the dark.

She will trust that happiness will come again and and again and again as long as she shares it, even it is just to kiss the air, or whisper-sing her stories to the wind as she runs past, zooming around ramming into things that she knows will bring her joy.

Joy and grief are sisters, growing up together singing wordless songs.

She will run away from home, climbing into the windows of her mama and papa’s sisters and brothers, because she knows that they love her as much as home does. And she can hide there for a while if she needs to.

My little monster, my little rough and tumble bundle of happiness. You will cry as much as your mama does, but be so quick to return to giggling as if you realize just how absurd grief truly is, how it is just smoke to wave away from the fire.