What we have today
Posted on | November 3, 2009 | 22 Comments
The morning comes again, the way it always does: too early, and I am heavy limbed among the flannel sheets. Sprout is kicking next to me, awake with the first light and sucking on his hands. He knows all the secrets of delight. I have yet to arrive entirely in my lumbering body: in the tendons that connect my bones, in my soft breasts and legs and heavy thighs. I have forgotten much.
In the shower, the hot water becomes the day’s first blessing. The soap is soft. The tile slick with steam. My feet slip a little on the enamel tub and I begin to remember who I am. I turn to face water streaming down and let the day fall towards me as it may: to-do lists, dreams, wet hair clinging to my cheeks. Outside the fields are full of crows and starlings among the stubble of the corn. Frost makes things silver and white. The sky is overcast and hints at snow. Today I have today.
At the café, a double latte with whole milk a graffiti of froth; and they are at the table across the room again, shoulders hunched and frail; his skin the sallow color of dried corn. I watch her rise to get more cream. She brings it to him, then puts her arms around his shoulders. Hesitates there. I see her look away.
Today it is this: what we have ends, begins, ends again, always. And when it’s over, all that we have becomes a fragile calliope of winding song, a muse, a promise, a thin silver thread connecting us to the other side.
How we pray doesn’t matter. Kneeling doesn’t matter. Pressing palms together doesn’t matter. What matters is the way the trees have lost their leaves now and stand stark and surprised, yet their stilling sap continues to hold the memory of bud, of newly furling leaf, of quivering branch lifting toward the summer sky.
Why do we hesitate at the doorway of our hearts, becoming distracted with the simple frail shells of things the way they are just now?
He points to the bulletin board at the door and awkwardly knocks the sugar on its side, and she is there, already gathering the sweetness with a napkin. Brushing the grains into the trash. Leaving. Today she goes ahead of him, pressing her fingers to her lips. He follows after, a newspaper folded under his arm. Today they have today.
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November 3rd, 2009 @ 2:59 pm
You have been, for years now, a really good writer; now you are becoming as skillful a writer as De Guevara was a mentor.
November 3rd, 2009 @ 3:12 pm
Beautiful, Christina.
November 3rd, 2009 @ 4:46 pm
Amazing.
tara
November 3rd, 2009 @ 4:53 pm
An amazing post.
I have been preoccupied with this couple since you wrote about them. And your writing transcends them, and you, to all of us. We ALL have today. I tend to dawdle through each day, getting half of one project done and beginning another. Trying to escape the constant mothering that must be done. I am wasting so much time. Time that is currency and right now I am extremely wealthy. I have the privilege of using my time any way that I want, so to speak. I mean, I still need to feed the children. But. There are many minutes that I dwindle away. I have been writing more, and I have been making some decisions. I wonder if these decisions will be celebrating my “todays,” I hope so.
November 3rd, 2009 @ 4:54 pm
Why is your book not out yet so I can buy it and EAT IT UP?!
November 3rd, 2009 @ 6:41 pm
Stunning, Christina. I can see them. You paint such beautiful word pictures that the love between them is palpable. I want to have that love for the rest of my life with my husband. Keep writing, girl.
November 3rd, 2009 @ 11:07 pm
I have been reading you for years Christina, only commenting a couple of times. Today’s post brought me to tears — what a beautiful couple, I am wanting to know more…
You’re writing is amazing.
November 4th, 2009 @ 10:47 am
It’s somehow both a weighty and a freeing thought that today we have today. It makes me want to get up in a frenzy and tackle my to-do list while also wanting to savor the momentary quiet of naptime, these ten minutes stolen under a quilt with the laptop. I appreciate the focus this kind of tension brings; thank you for the [beautifully, oh so beautifully written] reminder. I hope you write more about that couple again too.
November 4th, 2009 @ 12:27 pm
Such powerful narrative–I’ll only echo what other readers say: keep writing, girl!
November 4th, 2009 @ 6:44 pm
This was lyrical and beautiful. I love your style and will definitely keep reading!
November 5th, 2009 @ 12:32 am
It’s been SO LONG since I last visited. Years probably. So glad to see you are blogging, having kids and living life as prolifically as before. Lovely.
November 6th, 2009 @ 5:44 am
Mmmm… Delicious harvest of words today, Christina.
November 6th, 2009 @ 1:38 pm
i agree with what a commenter said
above, time is a currency
and you write of it
beautifully…
November 8th, 2009 @ 4:04 am
Your posts are always so poignant. I loved reading them. Thank you.
November 8th, 2009 @ 8:07 pm
Ugh…I feel this couple too much. I have too much emotion in my life right now for others’ emotions, too. I guess…you write too well! How is your job that you mentioned a bit back? Are you bringing Sprout?
November 9th, 2009 @ 2:29 pm
How’s your NaNoWriMo going, Christina?
November 9th, 2009 @ 3:03 pm
Cheryl–it’s going…ish. Hence the utter lack of posts. Must find more hours in the day!
Thanks for asking!
November 13th, 2009 @ 9:58 pm
Beautifully written. Am new to your blog but I’ll be around awhile!!
November 14th, 2009 @ 3:30 pm
I was referred to you by Sunny, the commenter above. This was my first visit to your writing. I haven’t read something this lovely in a long, long time. In fact, probably since I was an English major at university and becoming dazzled by Anne Lamott and Annie Dillard. You, like them, make life beautiful. And you brought me back to that place again. So thank you.
November 23rd, 2009 @ 4:49 am
This was just so beautiful. And yes, when is your novel coming out?!
December 31st, 2009 @ 3:18 am
[...] leaves and golden light. Also morning poems. Pumpkin picking. Digging up potatoes. 11. November Noticing what we have.. Navigating a part time job, NaNoWriMo two boys. 50K words. Sort of. New friends. Dinner parties. [...]
March 10th, 2010 @ 4:25 pm
[...] leaving crumbs on the wide wood boards of the vintage farm tables, and all I can think about is how they are not [...]