Dear Little One,
Right now I’m sitting in the kitchen at my parents’ house. Mom is cutting up some potatoes and dad is going to barbeque some pork chops for dinner. I’m sitting on one of our black stools at the kitchen counter. “Kim’s stool”, as the family likes to call it. I broke one of the foot rests a few years back when I stood on it in a fit of excitement. What can I say, baking gets me amped.
I brought my laptop out here to write you a letter, the first of a group of letters I hope to eventually write, but I’ve been easily distracted so far. Mom does that to me. We tend to go off on these tangents where we talk in southern accents, Natalee too. We’ll be talking about our day at work and then suddenly everything is sunshine and daisies and hunny chiiilllld. It’s glorious.
I want to write you these letters because, well, I can. This may be one of those projects where I think it will end up being cooler than it is, or that they’ll just end up being letters that get lost in my computer that are never seen again. The way I look at it, even if no one ever reads these letters, at least I pursued the idea I had bouncing around in my head, I gave it a shot, and I can let it go and move on. I tend to have a lot of ideas like that. People call it creativity, but it feels more like idea insomnia. They never stop, and most of the time I don’t act on them. It’s a crime really because all of my ideas are award worthy, OBVIOUSLY. I’m probably doing the world an injustice by keeping these to myself. I mean, who wouldn’t want to hear the poem I wrote about job interviews?!
I want to write you these letters so you can hear the stories I might not remember to tell you, or that you wouldn’t know to ask me about. The moments that are less than extraordinary, but more than meaningful. Such as now.
I’m sitting on the couch, after having eaten the aforementioned pork chops and potatoes (and broccoli that I steamed, no stool pegs were broken in the process.) It is dusk; the sun has just descended from the horizon and the evening is in full swing. It’s no longer a hot June afternoon, but rather a cool spring evening. Dad is sitting in his recliner eating a watermelon Popsicle, and we’re watching the Dodger game, like always. It makes me sad to think that one day these moments will just be memories, that this now will be a then.
Natalee and I set a goal this past January. She bought a book by Demi Lovato that is full of quotes, one for each day of the year. Each morning, whoever wakes up first writes the quote of the day on our mirror closet doors with a dry erase marker. The quote stays up all day, and then erased and replaced the next morning with a new one. It’s our daily dose of inspiration. Something we could all use in the morning. Especially me. One of those quotes led me to writing you this letter. It was a simple quote. Simple and complicated. One that makes you think, and sticks with you for a long time.
“Forever—is comprised of nows—“ -Emily Dickinson.
Someday, though I don’t know when, my nows will lead me to you.