(Columnist’s note: those of you sick of hearing about happenings on “a social networking site” should stop reading now. But not really.)
“When I was little and mom would take you back to the airport after Christmas, I’d spend most of the night watching airplanes trying to guess which one you were on. Just so you know…”
I call that kind of posting, which appeared on a social networking site, a “matter of the heart,” the kind of thing that stimulates a visceral response and which, for me, makes my eyes leak. (As Frank McCourt’s mother used to say, my bladder’s too close to my eye.) Those “matters” are the things that we see, read, remember or touch that affect the rhythm and pace of our breathing and beating hearts.
I did not learn, when I was green and growing, how to express the emotion commonly called “love.” Once I became aware of the concept of expression, I examined it with furrowed brow, pushed a tentative and exploring finger into it and when it did not bite, I picked it up and placed it into my heart. It grew there awhile, apparently unaided by me, for I do not remember thinking, “did I feed the love today?” But some other things in my life may have nurtured it and today, I am a little more comfortable with the outward expression of those little moments. My sister has always gotten it, though. She posted this to her “wall” on my birthday, one year:
“I grew up with 2 big brothers. They were the first guys I fell in love with. I thought there was nothing more awesome than big brothers. I still think that. Happy Birthday to my big brother Cj Woods III. I love you!”
A friend called me recently, to share some warmth. I met this woman years ago, at my best friend’s wedding, and she became my friend; shortly after we met, she lost her great love, her husband. She is still healing from that loss, but has work to do, and miles to go before she sleeps. And she called to share with me a waking moment of great joy.
When she was young, she dated a young man and enjoyed his company, but they had to part. On a recent trip to her favorite grocer, she asked that a stranger assist her by reaching for something. She said that the man chuckled, performed the task and ambled into another aisle of the store. At the meat counter, she and the stranger came together again and the butcher was an amused spectator to a pas de deux between two people with an abundance of sunsets behind them.
The two established that they had dated; the man asked my friend this question:
“How long has it been since I have kissed you?”
“58 years,” she replied.
“And then,” she told me, “he leaned down — he is quite a bit taller than me — and kissed me.”
In Leigh Hunt’s poem, “Jenny Kissed Me,” he summarizes the beauty of a such a moment long gone: “Say I’m weary/ Say I’m sad/ Say that health and wealth have missed me/ Say I’m growing old, but add/ Jenny kissed me.”
The remembrance and telling of Jenny’s kiss is a matter of the heart. I know the woman who was on the plane, but not the person who searched the sky for her; I know what my sister feels, for she tells me, privately and publicly. And I know what warmth is generated both in the receiving and telling of a long-ago lover’s kiss.
Make a memory, a matter of the heart, and happy Valentine’s Day.