Our first camping weekend of 2024, and we arrived in heavy rain on our favorite campground within an hour from home. It's pretty full - campers pepper the campground, and kids are out on brightly lit hoverboards, while others are riding bikes and playing frisbee. Folks are walking their dogs (and vice-versa), and one site had its smokeless fire ring going this morning after the drizzle stopped and there was a damp chill for the reckoning.
The dogs were nestled back in the crook of the teardrop on the bed, under blankets like little humans, their heads resting on the pillows in a deep schnoodle-snooze.
I was making the coffee for breakfast when the sweetest moment happened - one I shall never forget, connected to another moment that I shall also never forget.
The first one happened in May 2013, when I got my fingers slammed in the trunk of the honeymoon getaway car at my son's wedding as the happy couple were leaving. I assured everyone I was fine, fine, fine, but as we drove back to the hotel, I cried and carried on because I was afraid I would never be able to write again since I couldn't bend my fingers yet and they looked a lot like a package of Ballpark franks after being in a sandwich press. It sent my husband into such a panic that this moment of fear became forever etched into his scrapbook of memories he'd rather forget. But I was fine, am fine, nothing broken or chopped off.
Which makes this morning's moment all the more special.
I handed him
the water
bottle
as I
made
coffee
more and more
recently
I've handed
him
tight lids
I apologized ~
my hands
don't have
the
strength
they used
to have
I explained
again
it’s a scary
feeling, this
change
of
neediness
He smiled
took the
bottle
uscrewed
the lid
handed
it back
his words
brought
reassurance
of the
deepest
kind
.....but
they
can still
write
Common Threads 
Kim, such a poignant, precious slice of life. I can see you stoically bearing up for the sake of the wedding party and falling apart afterward. For, if you – if we! – could not write, how could we live?? We would find a way. We would have to. Writing is like breathing – necessary. Some years ago my son broke his wrist and I feared he wouldn’t be able to play the piano again. I carried that cold, sharp blade deep in my heart until he healed and resumed playing. My own hands aren’t as strong as they used to be either, truth be told. But they can still hold my Micah, they can still write – and those ARE sweet, sweet words. Write on, my friend.
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Thank you, Fran! Absolutely it is like breathing – – as necessary as air! We must chat soon – – you and I have the reading group next month for The Hurting Kind! I can’t wait!
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I have been thinking of that with great anticipation, Kim!
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Ahhh, those ARE the sweetest 5 words, and you are a marvelous writer! I always enjoy your stories. :)
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Thank you so much, Debbie Lynn! I subscribed to your blog today – – oh, I think we have much in common in our interests.
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I think so, Kim. I enjoy your writing. 🙂
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Wow! I admire how this is crafted. You wove the memories together perfectly. Your husband, there with the the strength and the words…beautiful!
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Thank you so much for reading. I’m grateful for the strength of his hands.
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What a powerful piece. It is hard to concentrate the things we have when we feel some of our abilities slipping away. You had me feeling all the feelings with your beautiful slice.
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Thank you, Erika!
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I love all the meaning that comes through by connecting these 2 small moments related to your hands. And a perfect ending line – …but/they can stlll /write. I’m appreciating my hands a little more after reading your slice. Enjoy your camping Sunday!
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Thank you, Sally!
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So well crafted from beginning to end. You left breadcrumbs for us to put it all together. While reading, I was transported to the campsite and then again to the “ballpark frank” moment. Tight lids also resonate with me, and then boom- your husband’s encouraging words coming full circle.
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Thank so much for reading!
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Kim – Wonderful moments captured so vividly. I especially love the phrase – deep schnoodle-snooze. I think you need to write a poem with that title! And yes – I can also connect with – this
change of neediness. It terrifies me, truth be told. I want to remain in tact, independent, but I know that changes will come and I will have to accept assistance.
Deep schnoodle-snooze, Deep schnoodle-snooze, Shaggy heads on pillows Dreaming of old shoes.
Deep schnoodle-snooze, Deep schnoodle-snooze, Black noses twitching Soundly snoring on cue.
Deep schnoodle-snooze, Deep schnoodle-snooze, Happy with their people Never singing the blues.
I’m sure you can be more creative – but it definitely is worth a silly poem to make your toes tickle!
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Joanne, how wonderful! No, no, I could NOT be more creative. This is such a sweet gift to offer a poem on a comment. Thank you, my friend! I have been watching your ever-blooming flower poems, and I would like to use a couple for my upcoming poetry on the square event. I’ll ask on your blog sometime this week – – I know Awakenings is one of them. Thank your for this touching poem about the schnoodle snooze!
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Kim, what a sweet poem and post. I loved reading about the campground and your dogs snuggling. Such a tender post so rich with detail I could envision everything. I’m so glad your husband understands that you’re definitely a writer and that you need to write because you make the world so much more colorful!
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Thank you, Barb! I’m going to pingback on your spooky slice tomorrow.
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Kim,
This is such a bittersweet memory. I love the way your prose blends into the poem to tell a story over time and to transition from one moment to the next. I was thinking about all the sounds of life in spaces where strangers converge this morning, and here you’ve captured that in such a lovely way that shows the passing of time w/ youth offering hope as we grow older. My hand are like yours, able to write but not able to open tight containers
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Thank you, Glenda!
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May it always be so! I love that your husband is right there supporting you, offering tender words of reassurance. My husband and I are both having a dickens of a time with opening things these days (and I know jars must be tightened differently these days, perhaps some sort of pneumatic device that refuses to give way). What I love most about your writing is that you are capturing the movement of time, reaching and grabbing and holding on to one moment. Love this, Kim!
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Thank you, Maureen!
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So well written, Kim. You wove two stories together and made an important point at the end. You are not alone in that lack of hand strength. I often think, “What would I do if I didn’t have Mike to open these jars?” Thanks for sharing!
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Thank you, Rita!
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Kim, what a great story about your fingers surviving getting smashed into the car trunk. Yikes! I love the passion for writing this whole post honors. I can relate to the tight lid scenario! I’m glad your hubby can do them for you. (Mine too.) Keep up the writing. What a gift!
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Thank you, Denise!
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