Tenderness

It is a beautiful day. The sun is out. The boys had a good night's sleep, a respite from autism's many teenage mysteries. I bring the boys out to the garden for our routine sun soak. Garret listens to his music on my phone. Morgan sits quietly on the camp chair his papa has brought out. I do gentle mindful movements and breathing, the only thing I can do for now with my injured foot. Soon after I settled down from my movement and meditation, I sat and let thoughts run through my mind.

The night Mom was laid to rest, an orange ladybug landed on my leg. I was an island away. I was in our dining room. I was waiting for the video call from my family once they reached the cemetery. It was hard lockdown. I couldn't be with them. I couldn't be with Mom.

This is probably the hardest, most painful memory I have carried and will ever carry in my life. The load does not get lighter, it seems on most days. Other days, I am able to forgive the world, everything, myself. And then a song plays, one my son randomly selects on Spotify that reminds me of her. Or as I do my daily walk in our garden, I suddenly remember how when she visited us, she loved to walk around in our garden in the mornings. I can almost see her 5' figure walking towards me gingerly.  I can hear her, "Good morning, Nak." Or in the quiet of the afternoon, precious moments of our afternoon conversations that hold me in the safest space possible appear, then everything becomes unraveled once more. My heart seems like it is broken again into pieces and there is simply no way it could be put together again. Some pieces shatter  into too tiny, unrecognizable fragments I wonder at all if they were part of my heart.

But then, tenderness appears. In the form of our hydrangeas blooming a most beautiful lilac pink. A white butterfly with exquisite black lines shaping its wings. The Brown Shrike perches unmoving, watching me for what seemed like a quarter of an hour. The wind too, blows a cool breeze, comforting my aching body, soothing me where it hurts the most. Tenderness emerges--an orange ladybug landing on our bright red insulin flower. Its size so tiny it is almost unrecognizable, not unlike one of the many fragments of my broken heart.

I remember a quote by Barbara Bloom--

"When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful."

If my heart were to be mended, the cracks wouldn't be filled with gold, but orange ladybugs whose other name is tenderness.

After our morning sun soak and walk with the boys, I ask Garret, "What did we see in the garden, Kuya?" He looks at me not saying anything, probably already wanting to go inside to play with his puzzles. I said, "We saw butterflies, birds, flowers," And without skipping a beat, he continues the list, he says, "Lolly."