rich

Truly Rich

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Freshly picked, my youngest demanded to be held. She’d just finished a few hours of finger painting, picture book reading, rug time singing, snack devouring, preschool heaven. And I just finished being in heaven, elsewhere.

Through the heavy glass doors of the church, the heat came at us like a dog out of its cage. Intensely. But still less so than the meltdown my dear toddler would have if I forced her to walk. Often she has to deal with these kinds of injustices but when it’s just her and me, so close to another couple hours of naptime freedom, I oblige.

As we approached our car I saw a new, pearl white SUV stop perfectly between the lines in the next space. Leather. Limited. License plates that wore the pride of a Disable Veteran.

Luxury comes with silver linings, I thought. The kind after you fight for your country, or on your head, or after many years of work and service and life. Yes, please take the handicapped section. All of it if you like. You, have, earned it.

But luxury doesn’t always come with age. It is not a guarantee. I think of this as I turn the pages of my husband’s copy of his late grandfather’s book. I think of Grandma, still with us, happily driving her old Subaru. She was giddy when they bought that thing all those years ago, and I wonder if she’ll ride it up to Glory someday. For now it sits before her small home, with her old decorations, when she isn’t gallivanting to seniors groups.

I love the seasoned of our society. And I love her.

The beautiful sun spots on her arms shadow the tireless work beside her beloved at their ranch. A ranch they devoted to sharing with other people. The gray that touches her neck came from raising four riotous boys and one sweet girl whom I assume was worried over just a much.
She is not fancy, she does not flaunt, and if you asked her to pick the one thing in her house of the greatest value, she’d most assuredly point to the wall-sized (I am not even joking, it’s gigantic) family portrait in her living room.

And it makes me think, she’s the one that is truly rich.  

Parallel Wrinkles of Time

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When he’s old they won’t go away as he relaxes, those lines that parallel above his eyebrows like a notebook. And when I’m two years younger but just as crinkled, I’ll think they’re endearing. I’ll remember being at the threshold of our thirties and him giving me that heavy look. “We’re sinking.”

I always take this news not with a grain of salt, but a whole salt block because my husband, God bless him, is a proverbial tightwad.

“Ok. Everybody calm down,” I say. “Let me see.”

My arms tighten and my breathing becomes shallow as I scroll the mouse down the alleys of Quicken charts. I become downright afraid. 

How did this happen? Sure, the new car in the garage contributed but we had some here and some there and…where did it go?

I dig. Deep into the depths of my heart at what is going on in the tick-tocks of this moment. At what I want to avoid with everything in me.

It’s saying “no.” No grande half-caff mocha, two pumps caramel, skip the whip; no salsa and chips and tips; no date-night movies where Chase slurps at an ICEE and we piously roll our eyes at what we looked like 12 years ago; no camping trip with the family; maybe no dream property that we’ve been praying about and saving for. 

As the monologue between my ears slows, we settle into our roles. He panics and I rationalize. Sometimes we trade, but usually those cute wrinkles on his forehead increase with intensity and stature while I try to juggle numbers and search for what checks are due us. Except I can’t juggle anything but schedules. Sometimes. You see the predicament.

We could have to utter them. The two words we’ll do anything not to say. “We can’t” Can’t eat it, can’t drink it, can’t go.

At first glance this feels embarrassing. Shameful.

At a second take, I see that I still have coffee every morning. We eat healthier at home (Although the rest of my family probably doesn’t care and would still claw for the Hot-N-Ready if it was in front of them… Who am I kidding? So would I). We’ve never gone without shoes or meals, pillows or blankets, or Halloween costumes. In fact, sometimes the blanket IS the Halloween costume. And instead of popcorn and the sloping tiers of amphitheater seating we have the best date of our lives watching stars among the pines.

We have each other. And I’d rather live poor with you, than rich without you.