I felt her in my kitchen last night. I might even go as far as to argue with you and say that I saw her, too. I saw her only enough that I called out to try to confirm what my eyes were telling me. So I called out, and no one called back. No one called back, but an overwhelming sense of love washed over me in the absence of sound. My voice drifted through the kitchen and around the corner, and the only reply was love.
And that’s enough for me.
It’s enough for me to think I saw a tiny head peeking around the corner in the middle of the night as I washed the dishes, listened to music, and danced. I washed the dishes, listened to music, and danced in my kitchen last night because no one was there to see it.
No one was there to see it, except her.
She saw it, and I can’t help but think that she understands it. She understands why Mama chose to stay up late, long after the chores were done, to do this very last one. I was told once, while crying, that I should use the act of washing dishes as a meditative practice. Wash, rinse, repeat. Be intentional and present, I was advised. Feel the warmth of the water and the repetitive movements of my hands. When I can do those things, perhaps she will come to me.
And she did come to me.
I felt her before I saw her. I turned around, thinking I’d catch someone out of bed. Instead, it was the flash of a small person peeking around the corner and then pulling away. “Hello,” I called out. No one answered my call. No one verbally answered my call, but a wash of love filled my soul. It was her. She’s watching you, Mama. Watching you wash the dishes, sing, and sway. She’s watching you be truly present, truly engaged, and truly happy.
Perhaps miracles can happen when we are truly present, truly engaged, and truly happy.
