Love notes

The notes arrive in plain sight.  Balanced on the books that flood my bedside table.  Tucked under a placemat.  Perched on the chaos of countertop that holds my overturned purse and scattered lists. 

So many missives multiply throughout the house that I wouldn’t be surprised if Jack’s heart, like his prolific love notes, is crafted out of colorful construction paper and Crayola markers. 

I love you Mommy to the moon and back

Mommy you r The Best

My mommy is my love and my mommy

The phrases blend together into handwritten, wholehearted haiku.  Words that caption and ground the elusive nature of days with a young child.  With this young child.

Over and over, Jack draws me with a heart for a body, a permanent smile and an accurately squiggled rendering of my wild, curly hair.   Even when I fall short, speak sharply, divert my attention in a dozen different directions, there I am taped on the refrigerator:  all heart.

Lately, it seems all too easy to take these notes for granted.  And I don’t want to be that careless or callous when someone hands me sheer generosity of spirit.  I want to remember to hold it.  Pocket it.  Pass it on.