Driving a car full of teenagers (and one Watson) is hard on the nerves; I don’t think I’m grown up enough to handle so much responsibility and distraction in a confined space. I like these people, though, and I like them even when it is not Sunday morning (they are Church of Beethoven/Chatter volunteers).
Then we end up sitting on a blanket at the edge of a field, eating popcorn, drinking lemonade, making pinhole viewers from a Raisin Bran box, and listening to Johnny Cash as the sun and the moon do amazing things. It is fun. Really, really fun.
As we drive home, Rachel asks, “are you going to leave soon?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “For vacation? Or forever?”
“Forever. You like it here, right?”
“I love being here. I don’t know what is going to happen, but I’m not leaving, yet.”
“Okay, good. You shouldn’t leave until we graduate.”
Today, and always, I try to fight against my nature. I try to lean into the moment. I try to enjoy what is fleeting and now without planning for forever. I’m sort of doomed to fail, though, because there is no avoiding the part of me that wants to roll everything beautiful about the day into a big, crumply, shiny ball. I want to hold it in my hands, take big greedy bites of it, and keep it inside of my heart, forever.
That’s sort of creepy. Right. I’m working on it.