The note struck my heart strings and sent them strumming. It came from an unexpected quarter. The words of gratitude shot through the account of the sender’s Thanksgiving reunion with her child like gossamer threads in a drab tapestry . I read it over several times, the chorus in my heart rising as the sender’s words rippled through me again and again.
Last night as my son and I finished cleaning the kitchen, I could not stop the happiness from washing over me. I don’t know my future. I tend to count my failures closer than my successes. But yesterday stands as a keeping day for me; a nugget found on the ravaged shore which nestles in the bowl on my table among the rocks and crystals.
I’ve never cared for money. I like my job enough to do it for free if I were rich or did not need to pay bills. After all, I didn’t get paid for raising my child, which sorely taxed me at times; but my satisfaction with the outcome cannot be understated. Helping people exert their parenting rights gives me the same feeling. I don’t always win. But I can say I never fail if my client believes that I fought for them. It’s all I’ve ever wanted: to be someone’s champion. Even better when as a result, a grieving mother can embrace her child for the first time in months.
This morning, my hips and knees remind me that cooking for two days straight exhausts me. Piles of clean dishes await careful extraction from the dishwasher and drain basket. We had a few casualties in the kitchen yesterday but I don’t mind. It’s all future landfill; and the memories that we made will endure. It’s the twenty-fifth day of the thirty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. The forecast evolves. Today, I think there might be a chance of sunny weather. Life continues.