If You Were Loving Me Now
If the one you love were still here, how would they love you in this?
If you were loving me now (as I know you are), you would come to me on this day - which feels like an especially hard day - and give me a big hug. It would be the biggest of big squishy seester hugs, one of those hugs that says everything without saying anything at all.
You would sit next to me and let me snuggle in. You wouldn’t need me to tell you how I feel, or to explain how shitty things are - you would already know. You wouldn’t suggest that I try to feel better or that I should look at the positives. You would sit with me and let things suck.
You’d bring me a blanket and make me a cup of tea. We’d put on some comfort TV - a movie like Anne of Green Gables or a silly rom com. We would stay there together, sharing an old and familiar story, laughing at all the silly bits and swapping notes about our favorite parts.
Then you’d dig out old home movies, the ones we never got tired of revisiting, and we’d watch ourselves as children. We’d laugh at how bossy I was, how whiny you were, and how bad everyone’s haircuts are. We’d bathe ourselves in memories of simpler times - a time when all was right when the world, when everything held promise and possibility. A time before anything bad had ever happened to us.
You’d make me some soup. You’d take me for a walk in the woods. You’d make me a playlist filled with comforting and encouraging songs. You’d put together the most amazing care package for me and drop it in the mail, filled to the brim with delightful surprises and thoughtful gifts.
You’d text me a ridiculous meme, just to lighten the mood.
You’d remind me that it’s okay that I can barely function some days, that it’s okay to let go of all the things I thought I could take care of today. You’d tell me to forget it all, to let my kids have a movie night (again), to order takeout and to go to bed early. You’d remind me that tomorrow is another day.
You’d tell me how proud you are of me for doing this very hard thing. You’d tell me to keep showing up with all of myself, to keep telling the truth, to keep making my pain and my lessons visible to others because the world needs more truth-tellers, and that is who we are. You would remind me that’s why I’m here, and why you were here, and that there are still truths to tell, love to share, and kindness to spread and that I can’t stop now.
You’d tell me not to forget how beautiful and magical the world is, even with all its horrors and pain. You’d tell me to look up. Look up, look up, look up. You’d tell me not to miss this. You’d tell me to keep chasing joy, to keep finding wonder, to keep laughing and dancing and marveling and seeking.
You tell me this, even now. I hear your whispers all the time. Keep laughing. Keep loving. Keep remembering. Keep telling the truth. I love you. I’m with you. Don’t miss this. Look up.
If you were loving me now (as I know you are), you would come to me on this day - which feels like an especially hard day - and give me a big hug. It would be the biggest of big squishy seester hugs, one of those hugs that says everything without saying anything at all.
You would sit next to me and let me snuggle in. You wouldn’t need me to tell you how I feel, or to explain how shitty things are - you would already know. You wouldn’t suggest that I try to feel better or that I should look at the positives. You would sit with me and let things suck.
You’d bring me a blanket and make me a cup of tea. We’d put on some comfort TV - a movie like Anne of Green Gables or a silly rom com. We would stay there together, sharing an old and familiar story, laughing at all the silly bits and swapping notes about our favorite parts.
Then you’d dig out old home movies, the ones we never got tired of revisiting, and we’d watch ourselves as children. We’d laugh at how bossy I was, how whiny you were, and how bad everyone’s haircuts are. We’d bathe ourselves in memories of simpler times - a time when all was right when the world, when everything held promise and possibility. A time before anything bad had ever happened to us.
You’d make me some soup. You’d take me for a walk in the woods. You’d make me a playlist filled with comforting and encouraging songs. You’d put together the most amazing care package for me and drop it in the mail, filled to the brim with delightful surprises and thoughtful gifts.
You’d text me a ridiculous meme, just to lighten the mood.
You’d remind me that it’s okay that I can barely function some days, that it’s okay to let go of all the things I thought I could take care of today. You’d tell me to forget it all, to let my kids have a movie night (again), to order takeout and to go to bed early. You’d remind me that tomorrow is another day.
You’d tell me how proud you are of me for doing this very hard thing. You’d tell me to keep showing up with all of myself, to keep telling the truth, to keep making my pain and my lessons visible to others because the world needs more truth-tellers, and that is who we are. You would remind me that’s why I’m here, and why you were here, and that there are still truths to tell, love to share, and kindness to spread and that I can’t stop now.
You’d tell me not to forget how beautiful and magical the world is, even with all its horrors and pain. You’d tell me to look up. Look up, look up, look up. You’d tell me not to miss this. You’d tell me to keep chasing joy, to keep finding wonder, to keep laughing and dancing and marveling and seeking.
You tell me this, even now. I hear your whispers all the time. Keep laughing. Keep loving. Keep remembering. Keep telling the truth. I love you. I’m with you. Don’t miss this. Look up.