heart to heart
the little red heart is the size of a button. so is its twin, the other half of its whole.
when the sun peeks in his room, when he bounds out of bed and into his school clothes, he’ll slip his into his pocket. so will his mama. i promised i would.
a heart in your pocket is a very good thing. especially on the very first day, the very first long day, when the time between saying goodbye at the school door, and climbing off at the bus stop, way past lunch in a lunchroom, and scrambling all over at recess, way past standing in lines and marching through halls, past sitting in chairs and reaching in desks. way past finding your name on all sorts of supplies, and even a locker you barely know how to use.
a heart in your pocket is a very good thing.
you give it a squeeze when you need to. you give it a squeeze when you’re sad. or you’re wobbly. or lonesome. you give it a squeeze when you’re certain its powers will work like a cell phone, connect you in magical ways, without even dialing. and the heart on the other end of the line will be there, will know that you’re calling, really she will.
because hearts in the pocket are like that.
they connect you.
and when you are six, and going off in the world, for the very first time really. for the very first time where the lumps in your tummy, and the ones in your throat are so big you think they might choke you. or send you flying to the boys’ room, way, way down the hall, before it’s too late.
the need for a heart, the need for a something, became wholly apparent last night in the dark.
that’s when your heart’s bared. that’s when all that is hiding comes out of the shadows. that’s when your room and your bed get overly crowded. that’s when the things that behave all through the day come haunting. they decide in the nighttime, they want some air time. they want to romp in your head.
that’s when the feet came. tiptoeing down the stairs, around the corner, right to my side, that’s when the words came too: “mama, i need to talk to you about something really serious about school.”
and so, of course, i stopped what i’d thought was important, scooped him onto my lap, and i listened.
“ i think i’ll be homesick.”
that was round one. before it was ended we’d talked, re-climbed the stairs, re-tucked into bed, re-kissed that soft head.
then came round two.
again, feet shuffling.
this time i was not far from his room. this time the words came in whispers, barely audible whispers there at the top of the stairs, where i promptly sat down.
“i’m nervous about tomorrow. i’m afraid i might vomit.”
the child goes straight for the heart. cuts no corners. softens no blows.
in a word, he took me right back. took me back to the weeks, there were two of them, one in kindergarten, one in first grade, where i too got so sick, so dehydrated, they twice tossed me in the hospital. i remember it vividly. remember the little pink puppet they sent me home with. but i remember other things, too, that weren’t quite so nice. things that still give me shudders.
i know what it is to be so afraid, so rumbly inside that you can’t hear a word, and the room feels like it’s swirling.
i took my boy by the hand. we had us some digging to do.
“we need a heart,” i informed him, as i led him. as if i knew just how to fix this. as if i was a sorcerer and i held the potion that would cure whatever ailed him. sometimes even parents play pretend. because they have to. because sitting there falling apart would not help. would not do a thing.
so we pretend that we’ve all sorts of lotions and potions and balms. we dab cream on a cut, make it feel better. whip up concoctions to take out the sting. we do voodoo and rain dances, for crying out loud. whatever it takes to get over the bumps.
the bump last night called for a little red heart. or a little wee something. something he could slip in his pocket, and know i was there. not down the street, around the corner, four more blocks south.
we dug through my top drawer, the one where i stash all my treasures. there was a rock shaped like a heart, a tarnished old ring, a bunny the size of a quarter. and the two red see-through hearts.
we sifted and sorted. i let him decide. i told him how his big brother, too, used to go off in the world with me in his pocket. explained how it worked. how you give it a squeeze and you know that i’m there. that i’m thinking. and loving. and waiting. for the end of the day when he’ll be home again.
i told him i, too, have him in my pocket. how i too would carry a heart. give it a squeeze. send a signal. all day, back and forth, little hearts would be flying. would be defying all logic and sense, and even some science.
but they’d not ever quit. would not break. not run out of batteries. they are forever.
good thing when you’re six, you know things by heart. and you believe, most of all, the things that your mama, she tells you.
especially at night, especially past bedtime, when all of your insides come tumbling right out. when the house has no noise, and the moon guides your way down the stairs.
that is the hour that’s blessed. that is the hour that mamas and papas and all the people who love you pull out their needles and thread, and even their little red buttons, whatever it takes to stitch you and your heart all back together.
now go to sleep, sweetheart, and when the day comes, just give me a squeeze. and i’ll do the same. we’re as close as two hearts in a pocket.
that’s a promise i’ll keep. i promise.
any butterflies and rumbly tummies at your house? what magic spells and secret potions do you have to chase them away? do you remember your first long day away from home, tucked in a school desk, when you thought your heart would pound right through your chest, and the flip-flops in your tummy nearly did you in? did someone you love soothe you? make you believe you could get over the hump? do you still get butterflies? i do…..
Barb, We will all want to know how first grade went, but I am awaiting a meander from you in a few days about the sadness of finally getting what you thought all along you wanted–a quiet house for 6 hours each day to do your profession and anything else you desire or that needs doing. For all of the other years, you have had to do so much juggling with schedules and sitters and activities and playdates, to accomplish your worklife and now poof in a flash, you will have the weekdays to yourself. What will you make of them? What will they make of you? There are a few of us out at the table who have been-there-done-that, meaning wished for a moment that did not need to be scheduled to attain quiet to think about work. But, once it is attained by the last little first-grader, it is bittersweet. Where did all the time go?
I think I’ve shared it before, but over the years my pockets have been filled by my dad, best friend or even my own two hands with smooth stones from lake superior. These stones are proof that things become more beautiful even when they face the storms of life. These stones have brought me comfort many a times when my fingers reached into my pockets.In this modern day of cell phones and email, I have also learned of the soothing comfort of text messaging of all things. As my love was 5 hours away for the past year, our mode of support for one another often came in the form of text messages. We had a few ground rules (it couldn’t be a logistical message and there had to be some humor or beauty in the text). So began our game of, “I love you more than…..” I love you more than all of the ears of corn between chicago and st. louis, I love you more than all of the cubs fans at wrigley field today, I love you more than all of the tears you’ve shed this week, I love you more than dark chocolate.” Oh these short messages that popped up on my cell phone when I least expected it, were pure balm for a geographically challenged heartsick woman.Well, my love has returned and I realize that even though those messages helped, it is a lot better to play the “I love you more than” game when we are face to face in the Windy City.I hope some day that I have a little pocket to place a lake superior stone in and that little fingers can provide me with a stone for my big pocket.your little one has a wise mama, who knows how to go deep and bring up pearls!
Barbara, You are the most remembering-est person I know. I can not remember how I felt on the first day of Kindergarten, First grade, Freshman year. What kind of memory vitamins doyou take? do tell.
Good sorcerers think on their feet if the witch book lacks that particular entry. Mine are a little bigger than the big guy, but courage and leaps of faith are still often needed: I’ll be handwriting this one into my recipe book. And in my typical cart-before-the style, I realized I could have grandkids some day as my first went off to her first day of high school!
okay, people, we’re in a bit of a panic over here. the hearts made rather a splash over the weekend. ended up smack dab at the top of the week-in-review part of the newspaper, the chicago tribune, the one where i work when the sun’s out. and then yesterday, when the once-a-year cleaning ladies came, they seem to have moved them. they told me they were wondering about them. thought they looked rather sweet. and now they are missing in action. and i can’t reach my friend kryzsa who cleans. cannot ask her where they might be. but the little one, he still needs them. went off to school without one this morning. an empty pocket is not a good thing. and he would not accept any substitute. so all of you who pray to the patron saints of lost objects, please put in a call, if you would. we’re on hold over here. and we really must find us those hearts. you knew it would happen, didn’t you? but of course……
i was in that picture it was in the chicago tribune.
[…] went off to first grade here at the chair, armed with red hearts in his little jeans pocket. i kept one, too. mine was in my pocket, and all day long through the […]
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