The Music Plays On


Love is the wallpaper I want to paste on my walls. I picture the print as gorgeous fleur-de-lis pattern, solid silvers and grey-blue swirls on an off-white background. So upstanding and righteous and out of reach. The way I would need to breath to keep that paper intact as I lifted it to my wall of glue seems complicated. Or maybe it’s my hands that are complicated, not steady, worried and anxious that these hands, my hands, don’t understand how to complete this task.

I guess I’ll do it anyway, figure out how to wallpaper my house in love, making a holy home with these hands. These hands, the ones passed down from my ancestors, their stories ingrained even if I wish my hands had no mysterious tales attached to them. It would be so much simpler to start fresh. No need to undo centuries of learning.

This breath that I am unsure of is exactly what I know I can count on. If the paper rips or my hands get stuck together with paste, this in-and-out that continues despite my best efforts to beat myself up. This breath will take those mistakes and bless them with new air. Those imperfections of mine line these walls.

Like the way my kids so easily recount my missteps. I can hardly breathe when they so easily remember what I rather they would forget. But how easily they remind me that people make mistakes. Love is stronger than I think it is, the pattern more complicated than even my big brain can imagine. Its swirls and eddies continuing to build into a symphony. The pattern like a lattice, a ladder, a scaffold that holds this holy home together. Solid silvers and grey-blue fluer-de-lis swirls on an off-white background, locked together with our breaths. In-and-out, leaving a pattern behind for the next generation.

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