Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Scribbled on the back of an envelope at the Ben Folds concert

The world is changing. We are ageing. Friends' parents are dying. I recently discovered that Ben Folds - who writes about romance and grief and ordinary people in ways that I feel with resonate with me forever - has been married four times. Lance Armstrong is a drug cheat. In between epitomising family life, Bill Cosby allegedly spent the 1980s molesting 13 young women. My darling husband's signature black hair is thinning.

Life continues. My naughty four year old is singing in a Christmas concert, reading sentences, sobbing on the floor because she wants a coloured ribbon. In her darkened bedroom my baby feeds herself to sleep with such contentment - bliss - etched on her sweet face that I hope never to forget. My husband and I are listening to Ben Folds play with the symphony orchestra and - if I try - I can separate art and personality and he still makes my heart churn and soar and I still know all the words.

When I get home I will sneak in and kiss my babies. My four year old's room will smell slightly funny and she'll be sweaty and oblivious and I'll risk waking up the littlest one, but I'll do it anyway. Because life is happening, moving, passing, here - now.

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