Thank You

Thank you.

For sliding that note under the conference room door: “I love you Mom so much.” For the day we corresponded only in song titles because our everydayness was too thick and muddy and scary for our own words. For hot rolling your hair and slipping into a rouge dress for the Godfrey’s drag brunch (and then spilling out into the street sobbing over how much we love-need each other; falling to pieces and picking up pieces and making peace right there in the middle of Grace Street). For your grace. For the running of half-marathons and whole marathons. For marching Onward! For being an Iron Woman. For the DJ who drops sick beats and spins mad sounds and calls me from time to time to talk men’s fashion. For the friendraisers. For the believers. For the Dirty Blondes and The Orderlies. For the army of brave hearts that come at the evils of epilepsy, cancer, diabetes, chronic illness, broken bones, cracked hearts, lice, stomach bugs, skinned knees, snow storms, death – the toughness of life. For coming at tough with tougher; for coming at heavy with lighter; for coming at dark with light. For your force, fortitude, and LOVE LOVE LOVE. For your inappropriate laughter. For gathering. For village-ing. For caroling. For shucking good times. For gaming. For the Cave. For the porches. For the backyards. For your country party field. For Smith Mountain Lake. For the Rockies. For the pirates roaming Bald Head Island. For that day we rooster-tailed through rain puddles in Duck, North Carolina. For your dad’s place in Chatham. For the Lewis Ginter Recreational Center. For Friendsgiving. For fireworks. For Friday family pizza nights degenerating into discos. For theme drinks and costumes. For the vans, station wagons, SUVs, canoes, kayaks, bikes, scooters, skateboards, Radio Flyers, unicycles, airplanes, trains, ferries, trailers and feet that hold us, that carry us, that get us to each other. For the high-school excitement about bands. For Jim James in Asheville. For a Charles Bradley hug. O’ that Screaming Eagle of Soul! For Monday nights with Jason Isbell (and the long, long road home) and The Lone Bellow. For declaring emphatically that we’re not staying out late on a school night. We can’t; we just can’t. For staying out late on school nights. For that Tuesday with Pearl Jam, for your grandmother’s chicken salad, for that Baba O’Riley cover, for a full cooler, for your full-of-coolness. For Sunday night suppers. For The Eagles documentary. For shotgunning that beer before the Drivin’ N’ Cryin’ show at the Paradise Garage. You sure do Fly Me Courageous. For the big bad brass and banging drums sound of No BS! while we carved pumpkins. For the train rumbling by and the James tumbling by and the air full of mighty tunes at Friday Cheers. For locking me into Lock’n by trick-telling me it wouldn’t be “too jammy.” For refusing rushed hugs and handshakes, for holding on tight, so tight I feel like I’m going to break. For blazing into my house on a weekday afternoon while your son’s at baseball because that’s the only time we can steal. For showing up. My goodness, you show up! For wedging in a half-hour for our Lord of the Flies boys because a little time together is better than no time together. Because that moment might be the moment. For pouring me tea in a mug that says “The Universe Knows.” For knowing. For giving long distances the middle finger; nothing will keep us apart. Not ever. For redefining “apart.” For being a part, a huge huge huge part of me. For meeting me behind the scoreboard at halftime at the UVA-Duke game so that our little divas could twirl together, so that we could twirl together. I love that twirly feeling. For hauling me out of tennis retirement because you knew that I could. Because we did. Almost. For recognizing that my “we probably need a break from dogs” statement was my giant, raw hurt talking. For knowing my heart needed a pillow-eating, sock-destroying, panty-raiding, cheese-stealing, toe-breaking, mud-splattering lab-hound rescue. For rescuing me. For curse-badger-encouraging me to swing by your tailgate during a monsoon. For tackle-hugging me in the parking lot and never losing that across-the-street-neighbors lovin’ feeling, even though we live in different towns. For helping me make grown-up decisions, not all the time, but just enough. For reminding me it’s time to schedule summer camps. For the night we drove to DC for that drink we’d been talking about for the last few years. For the homemade Whiz on the cheesesteak we devoured post-runway show. For causing my mascara to run black rivers down my cheeks when you told a crowd of five hundred that I brought joy to every day. For being a joy crusader. You are joy, man. For that Friday afternoon we Just Dance-d before gathering our children from school; Just Dance-d, just ‘cause. For partnering with me on world-changing projects. For believing change is possible. For Convivencia. For telling me to write write write every day. For wander-wondering about why saying someone is nice is an epic compliment to a five year old and somehow just shy of an insult some thirty years later. For being nice – five-year-old-gentle-deep-kind-best-friends-forever-blood-sister nice. For that poem that chiseled through my stone. For being poetry. For those YouTube videos that rocked ‘n’ rolled me out of what was rocking and rolling over me, that funked me out of my funk, that grooved me into the right grooves, that unjammed me with jams. For all those electronic links that link us. For connecting – any and every which way we can. For the radio show we shimmied and shook to in your mama’s living room on a Saturday night. For the brunch at C Street and your whispered wisdom: special takes effort. And for making the effort. For family time. For walks in the woods, fishing adventures, rock-hopping, mountain hikes, South of the James market strolls and Mrs. Yoder’s donuts. For that Kindness Lights street art wall. For that behind-the-back-corner-pocket shot. For singing at the tops of our lungs. For holler-singing with me in cars, bars, basements, river cabins, and beach houses for more than three decades. For tying on aprons and pulling Pernil. For lighting lanterns and tipping light by the lake. For asking me to play H-O-R-S-E. For letting me read Good Night, Gorilla to your cherub and share lipgloss with your princess. For that soak-up-our-sins morning feast around your Seattle table. For feeding my soul. For climbing on the kitchen counter to boogie down to Roar when we should have been working on your math worksheet and rainbow writing. You’ve got the eye of the tiger, baby. For calling me at five o’clock knowing this is the soccer-practice-homework-dinner-prep-report-writing-can-someone-pour-me-a-Scotch-already part of the day. For talking to me right on through all that chaos. For that turkey noodle soup you left on my doorstep when a virus shredded me. For all things left on my doorstep: freshly caught rockfish packed in ice, CDs, concert posters, hoodies, shoes, gloves and other clothes we’ve left strewn about your houses, lipstick, camping gear, a bottle of wine, a growler of beer, a book, homework assignments, and that Gladwell chapter you printed for me. Damn, you keep us together! For playing through pain and age and ache every Sunday on the football field. For yell-coaching me on Monday mornings as if I were an NFL playa. For your fire. For talking “writer to writer” to my daughter. For the spirit of Chancey. For the inspiration of you. For that morning we gabbed about families, moonshine, feuds, music, and the bridging magic of story. For your story. For the artsy, heartsy box of notecards with the van Gogh quote, “Love many things.” For being one of those things. For Cezanne and a plate of ham. For small batches and Christmas sweaters and Ray’s late night. For a spoonful of fried chicken crumbs. For the two ladies on the train, one doing all the talking and the other saying, “Mmmm. Hmmm.” For that fountain in Augusta. O’ that fountain! Was there a more joy-filled and splashed hour! For inviting me to sit down to a long lunch knowing I usually eat a PBJ at my kitchen counter while sorting through mail and making a grocery list. For sharing your masterpieces, your brilliance – written, painted, glued, shellacked, sewn, sung, performed – you add so much color and glitter and splendor and thought and joy-noise to this world. For asking about my disease in a way that doesn’t say, “You poor, frail thing,” but rather “You go, girl!” For those two troughs of coffee downtown on a sunny morning before the James River Writers conference. For feeling WOW WOW WOW about our tomorrows. For ditching fancy, sit-down, date-night-y dinner reservations to go dance for four hours at Terminal 5. For LEE FIELDS! For this reminder from The Dynamites, “Whatever you do, do it with soul.” For doing it with soul. For Charles Walker’s shiny, silver suit. For shining. For Trombone Shorty’s mind-blowing horn-blowing. For not judging me for eating a three-meatball sub after midnight. For embracing my sandwich obsession, no matter where we are in the world. For taking care of my children and for taking care of me. For your advice, your counsel, your help, your pats on the back, your bear hugs, and even those kicks in the ass when I needed ‘em. For switching carpool days, for the sleepovers, for loaning blazers and dress shoes and cat costumes, for happy hours – for all that pinch hitting when my good mothering was in jeopardy. For calling me out when I’d gone silent or dark or tired or martyr-y or sad or angry. For asking me, “Mom, before you go downstairs, will you lie down next to me and listen to the rain?” For inviting me into your calm. For enduring my mad-swirl. For weaving and looming friendship bracelets. For braving snow, ice and drunken Santas on the trains to squeeze into the back booth at Cookshop. For squeezing me into your busyness, for tight-squeezing me. For laughing about the old days and dreaming about the new. For driving thirty minutes WAY out of the way with kids whining, wives bitching, wheels coming off, holly-jolly ripping at the seams and Mariah Carey belting it out in the background so that we could take in the Rosedale light show together. Glory, man. So much Griswoldian glory. For sharing your journey, your heart, your path, your festivals, your art show, your books, your life, your curiosities, your fears, your mixtapes, your work, your plans, your hopes, your drinks, your meals, your seat, your time with me. For turning my head to wonder, to magic, to love, to light, to laughter. For you. For beautiful, hilarious, strong, clever, bold, courageous, generous, bright, outrageous, fresh, zany, electric you.

Thank you for you. Each of you. And all of you.

So this is Christmas.