glitter days

There came to pass a moment on Sunday during which my hands quite literally flowed over with paper flowers and crayoned cards and alien handprints, clumsily traced and cut.  Torri had to work that day so her present came before breakfast, letting loose the floodgate of gifts and faces upturned and Mommy, look what I made you!

Whereas once Torri’s were among the construction paper variety of gifts, they are no more.  She has a job and a car and off she zips to choose something she knows I’ll love and I remember the joy in that.  The satisfaction of giving something with perceived value.  I gave my own mom a ring once–from an actual jeweler.  My birthstone alongside hers.  And then–when I was sixteen and pregnant–a poem penned over the bulge of my belly, paper all I could afford at the time.  The last line lingers in my head still: I hope that I can be the same wonderful mommy you’ve been to me. I wonder if she still has either.  If one meant more than the other.

In the gift bag from Torri, atop the spring green maxi dress (just my size) and the earrings to match, there were three pink heart soaps.  Handmade in Chemistry class.  I can’t place the scent.  Strawberry, maybe?  Flecks of glitter show through and I’m so thankful she added it.  Holding those little hearts, I close my eyes and see the pixie version of her, holding up a goopy glitter rainbow with cotton clouds.  Mommy!  Look!

Years and years from now there may come a day when she’s home visiting.  Mom, I forgot my toothbrush, she’ll say.  Under the sink in my bathroom, I’ll answer.  And when she goes in search she’ll come across three glittery pink heart soaps, sealed away in a baggie.  If–by then–she is still childless she might question why I never used them.  Didn’t I like them?  But if–like mine–her arms overflow with the stuff dreams are made of, she’ll know: I keep them to remember her glitter days.  The sticky remnants of a girl slipping right through my hands, becoming who she will be.

{Just Write}