Day 16: Something you believe to your very core. Support it with examples.
Okay, maybe the reason I put this one off for a few days is because I had to ponder it. I had to think. I've been cogitating for 48 hours and I believe I've got it. But first, let me say this: This topic is a writing prompt from a journal. It's actually from one of my kids' school journals. That's kind of heavy and deep for little guys, but I'll run with it. I can't imagine being 10 and trying to shoot from the hip and write to this in a limited amount of time . . . .
Something I believe to the core:
Little things matter, or It's the Little Things.
However you want to say it.
About October of last year, my son gave me a hug. It was a big hug and it came with an exclamation packed with child-like honesty and innocence that went like this, "Holy Cow, Mom, I can touch my arms around you now. Those shakes things must be working!" That "little thing" lifted me miles high. Miles. High. I didn't realize that he couldn't touch. Honestly, I'd never thought about it, but I do now. We have a pact, however backward it seems. He's verbally contracted to let me know if ever a day comes when he can't touch . . . . for I will know that I have fallen ass first off of the wagon and stayed in the dirt. I know, I know . . . his arms are growing. See, I did say, "however backward". Still, it IS the little things . . .
Second, tea. Yes, tea. Or rather, "ocha". Japanese for tea. My Pop drank ocha for breakfast for about (hmm, let's see he was 92) . . . so 90 years in the morning. Every morning. He liked coffee and he liked black tea, but for him, ocha was where it was at . . . a truly zen morning experience. I can remember him drinking ocha out of little Japanese dishes like this:
His tea came loose-leaf in giant barrels and he had a tea ball that dangled into the pot. He taught us how to make tea like I teach my kids to put the right amount of creamer in my coffee. Not too much, not too little . . just right . . . .
Anyway, during the long stretch of days that Pop was in the hospital, he asked for ocha every hour of every day. While he was in the hospital care, he couldn't have anything, but once he got to hospice, all the stops were pulled and the sky was the limit. So I made him ocha. First thing in the morning for the first four mornings, when we was awake enough to see the moon out of his window but before the good Lord had taken his urge to eat and drink, I made him ocha. I brewed it and sweetened it just a smidgen and because he couldn't sit up, I straw fed it into his mouth like a baby bird. And he would smack his lips and let out the most satisfied moan.
Ocha hit the spot, but what he really wanted in the last couple of days was to hold the cup. It was warm on his hands. I helped him balance it and kept it from spilling. And there he would lay, until the cup was cool, holding the cup of warm ocha in his knotted, gnarly, arthritic hands. When it was cool, he'd sleep for a while and then wake again, asking for ocha. Not to drink . . . just to hold the cup . . .
Yes, I do believe . . . it's the little things that matter most!