27. WHEN MY BED WAS A BOAT

Tonight my heart feels almost as heavy as my neuropathetic feet. My whole self is a big old chunk of heavy. But I'm not alone. So many people I love feel it, too. We buried a dear friend today. 

Those who share religious commitment with me spent the day helping nourish those who loved her. Afterwards I visited church sisters who are ill. Took dinner to multiple people. Then birthday love tokens to other neighbors, and finished off the night with a trip over to our Grandson Walter's house to give him his birthday gift. We watched him balance himself on his brand new longboard with its light up wheels. They shine nicely in the dark. He's seven years old now, our Walter Connors. Watching him slip down the sidewalk in the dark, little sparkly circles shooting down the trail on this moonless eve of Spring Equinox, lifted my heavy heart. A little sliver of memory wedged its way into my thoughts and I had a vague recollection of the lightness of childhood. I let my aged mind slip back in time to how it felt to be 7.

Where I went, in my weary old wrinkly head, was back to the top of my twin bed, upstairs in our bedroom in our house on Old Clairton Road. I'm on my bed, with an upside down trash can on one end, and a pale blue Madame Alexander box on the other, my Pussy Cat baby doll swadled in a dishtowel cradled inside. My  sister, Libby, one year younger, is on her bed, right beside mine. Barbie and Ken are riding along with her. sitting all tan and stiff legged against the shallow side of the drawer of our wooden nightstand. Libby can't resist imagining there is a major storm at sea. She jumps against the squeaky metal springs of our old twin beds. The jumping causes her feather pillow to slip overboard into the wild ocean waters. I lay prone on deck, stretching my arm down to the water, hoping for a wave to push the pillow in my direction. After a successful rescue, I toss the pillow over to her. She lays down on it, panting. It takes three minutes of deep pretend sleep to recover from the effort. It's exhausting work, trying to stay afloat in the wake of a tumultuous storm.  For one full afternoon, all the way up to dinnertime, we sail along, never touching our wooden floors, jumping from stern to bow, and from boat to boat. The memory eases the heavy mind, and lightens the weighted heart.

Never were there better, more faithful friends, than the sisters who share my history. Whether it is pretending our beds are boats, or grilling chicken for 120 people in a funeral luncheon. Five diverse individuals, with the common thread of a mother. I am grateful and comforted by our shared history, and grateful in advance, for our shared future.

And now, because the memory has eased my mind, I think I will go lay my weary bones on by bed and pretend the water is rocking me to sleep.

Thankful for sisters.