When we were young we’d stand in my parents’ kitchen and the light over the back door would flicker and we wouldn’t notice. Your hands were on the counter behind me, and in my hair, and even as we crossed the lintel of midnight, and you were tired from a long shift, I’d beg you: please stay a little longer.
We spent one year driving up and down 29 to see one another, and I would stall every separation. One more night, one more hour. You were responsible, though, with a real job and rent to pay on your own, and you’d eventually materialize on the asphalt of the parking lot behind my Rugby Road apartment, walking backwards to your black Jeep, looking at me in the window. I’d think about you stopping to fill up with gas on the way out of town, and wonder whether — if I sprinted down the steps and floored it in my car — I could find you at the Shell on Emmett. I could see you at the pump, the familiar broad set of your shoulders, the sandy hair curled at the nape of your neck, your look of surprise. I wanted to claim every minute of you.
After we had our first baby, I couldn’t stand to be alone. Memories of the c-section would gather like a storm; you were the only thing that could temper the wind. Please stay, I’d ask, and you would. Or I’d lean on you as I’d descend the steps, my abdomen sharp with pain, so I could sit with you in the kitchen, being roundly unhelpful as you prepared meal after meal, and deeply satisfied by your closeness.
This was also what we told Tilly as she died in our arms. We didn’t say it out loud, though, because we knew she had to go, was in pain and not meant for this world, but we felt the words alight inside.
“It’s OK,” we repeated instead, running our hands over her head, as though granting permission for the inevitable. But our inner hearts beat: one more day, please. When we looked at each other in Whole Foods the next morning, standing in the check-out line, shuffling freezer waffles and milk and not pet food onto and off of the conveyer belt, you made a sad little frown at me over the children’s heads. I wish she’d stayed. The hole never felt deeper.
I think these words, too, when I look at our babies, now five and eight, knowing full well they won’t. That nothing gold can stay. Another hour just like this, with our goldenrod son in my arms. Another afternoon just like this, with my daydreaming daughter reading on the sofa, her bare feet moving idly in the pillows, the world comfortable and legible around us. Please stay.
You know, they say “cellar door” is the most phonaesthetic phrase in the English language, but I think they’re mistaken. Are there any words more beautiful than “please stay”? Is there anything more gorgeous or noble or heart-breakingly beautiful than holding fast to what is good? Of leaning against the mortal and heaving your heart against its too-fast door?
Post-Scripts.
+Remember when we used to take our time?
Shopping Break.
+If you liked this wrap-style pareo I just recently ordered, you can get the look for a little less with this Banana find!
+Handball Spezials in great colors.
+I have been keeping this sunscreen by the door so I remember to apply it before I go for my morning runs. REALLY love it – great lightweight consistency.
+Just ordered these hot pink running shorts.
+This foldable, supportive yoga mat is in my cart. Sometimes I like to do a shorter ab workout upstairs while Landon is using the gym and this would come in handy.
A+A great sweater under $160 — I own in the blue.
+Reminder that these ultra-comfortable pants are 30% off at the moment. Run TTS and very versatile. I own in the brown sugar color.
+I LOVE this skirt.
+Just steamed this to wear tomorrow with white jeans.
+Fun statement sweatshirts.
+Picked up this $19 tankini set and this $19 one-piece for my daughter! I also found these inexpensive cover-ups for kids in great colors.
+Fun statement pants to pair with white tanks and leather sandals!
+Can’t stop thinking about this top.
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