hugged close

I am feeling a little shaky this morning. Not unhappy, just a bit unsettled.

I was talking to My Lovely One last night about the workshop I had been to, about the ideas that were fuelling my brain: story.telling, rhymes, reconnection, touch.

I was remembering how my mum used to tell me stories when I was little, about when she was a little girl: about her little black chicken called Blackie who went to a farm, about the boys she used to meet down on the corner, about her best friend called. And then I couldn’t remember my mum’s best.friend.from.childood’s name. The harder I tried, the tighter my brain squeezed, panicked.

If I didn’t remember, I would never, could never know.

My Lovely One soothed: you know it, it’s there, it will come. And this morning, as I was brushing my teeth, it did.

When I was little, my mum’s story about jeannie.davis was just a story. But last night and this morning, it was a way to keep her hugged close to me.