Sacha wrote me the other day asking, "Mom do you remember the last time you held my hand when I was a child?"
As we lived in an old house in the country not so far away from the village, close to a river and a forest behind us, we often walked to and fro the village and went wandering by the river that looked more like a stream. Up the hill from our house Annie lived, and in the surrounding fields wild tulips, asparagus, and rows of grape vines grew. Sacha's childhood friend Fabrice lived down the road. We held hands whenever we went, Chelsea on one side and Sacha on the other.
Sacha wrote, that he remembers my hands were soft and warm. I probably stopped holding their hands when they were in the fifth grade.
Childhood.
When I was in Seattle, Sacha held my hand, strong and giving, pure gift.
Sacha's asking me about the last time I held his hand reminded me of other little memories that have slipped away from my day to day life. Sweet memories seem to pour in as I recalled his and Chelsea's childhood. Such as the time Sacha lost his first tooth I remember the morning when I went to his bedroom to wake him up for school but instead found him sitting on the edge of his bed holding his tooth, "Mommy, this morning, when it was still dark outside the church bells started to ring: DONG 1, DONG 2, DONG 3 and DING my tooth fell out at the fourth ring of the church bell!" In all seriousness that only a child can muster, he added, "I wonder who is going to leave me money under my pillow, the American tooth-fairy or the *French little mouse?"
Customs in France are not always the same as in the USA.
"…The most commonly accepted belief by academics is the fairy's development from the tooth mouse, depicted in an 18th century French language fairy tale. In "La Bonne Petite Souris," a mouse changes into a fairy to help a good Queen defeat an evil King by hiding under his pillow to torment him and knocking out all his teeth…" Via Wiki
Stories collected, memories gathered thoughts that keep me going on dark days. The patterns in the sky, the unfolding of hearts, life in the monastery and how I learned to pray while cooking. Stories of finding and keeping and losing and weeping, the struggle of having lived when death thought to call. Moments of living the words of a dream: Life continues to continue even when unseen. Memories of childhood and Portuguese donuts and saying the rosary with my cousins. Running in dry rice fields, cracking walnuts, riding motorcycles and walking down the lane. Marty, Mathew, Mark and Zane. The best deal I ever found in the shadiest puce was the rarest gem. What words tumble from your heart and soul? What words tell your story? What book would you write?
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