I first wrote “The Sound of a Music Box Always Makes Me Cry” over four years ago, but for some reason it shows up in Google searches and in my mind every now and then. I wanted to share it again, fresh from my California trip, with fresh new tears from incidents during my trip. Like my son crying through FaceTime with that perfect trembling lower lip – not because he missed me – but because he missed my mom, after 10 days with her. (the kids spent their last two nights with my father-in-law) And our very dear friend we saw on the last day of the trip who gave me beautiful earrings and I remembered heartfelt feelings from almost 15 years of knowing her.
The Sound of a Music Box Always Makes Me Cry.
Did I tell you I cry at rainbow flags and Grateful Dead concerts? I cry at parades, seriously every time, and when I’m feeling overwhelmed and defensive. I cry when someone belts out the lyrics to a power ballad, and I cry during the end of the “Jurassic Bark” episode of Futurama.
I cry at elephants and kid tears, and kids and elephant tears, when someone drops their glasses, and when an elderly person struggles to rise out of their seat – when in their mind and heart – they remember how it felt to soar. To run and jump and fly. And I cry during EMDR – when I’m gently coerced to relive the most painful memories of my life – if only to change the bodily memory and rise above. I cry when I remember what it feels like to soar, and I cry that I know that feeling almost daily but I still hold myself back from breaking my wings to get higher.
I cry if he goes to work early before the kids wake up, and Des periodically asks during the day, “Is Dada coming back?” “Yes. Every time. Yes. Yes.” I cry that the answer could be “No. Not ever. No. No.” And I cry that those answers were to MY questions, when I was only 11 months older than Des is now. I cry that when Scarlet was younger than Des is now, I told her she was going to her grandparents for the weekend and she looked up at me and asked, “Am I coming back?”
I cry at the passage of time and the season finales of shows. I cry that her teacher spent the last month of her career before retirement having to bury her father and clean out his house. And I cry that during all of that, she took the time to pick out a Fairy Rose music box for Scarlet’s birthday, because Scarlet played “Briar Rose” in the school play. I cry that she spent nearly six hours a day with my kid, five days a week, and that she thinks Scarlet is magical and dreamy.
I cry that Scarlet once told me I was so pretty she could barely look at me, and that I’m the funniest person she knows, because I can assure you, that I don’t feel painfully pretty or funniest anything. Except that I do make a good fart joke every now and then, and everyone knows that a good fart joke makes me laugh until I cry. So I guess you can say that farts make me cry.
I cry that he made a Groot costume in six days, and a beautiful birthday party in four. I cry that he’s painfully handsome and that we’re not always connected the way we could be. Oh, I cry at every day and week and year lost, when he thought I didn’t care, but really I was screaming inside at anxiety and pain. And I cry that life has gotten more easy and more beautiful than that, but also much harder and more complex in love. Love should be hard, complex and beautiful.
I cry that his hands make so much, and that we made two kids. I cry that her teacher’s hands needle felted a gnome for her out of love. Oh, and I cry that I’m writing this blog post with even a thought about what someone I don’t know even cares about my blog – my home. I cry because I’m scary when I’m angry and most of you are just too darn awesome to ever know and feel what I have been capable of when angry. I cry because I’m up here writing this blog post, when I could be downstairs watching the Grateful Dead. With him. But hey, look at that. There’s still time. For The Dead. For the love. And for the moose dreams, ice cream and Northern-lit skies we’ll see once we make those leaps – hands clasped. One foot in front of the other.