I’m not good at the soft stuff. The gentleness. I feel rough edged and calloused-handed. But when my niece giggles at me, I want to bundle her up in all her softness. Pinch her adorable rolls, swing her around while I can and hold her hand as she learns to walk. I’m an anti-romantic romantic and I’ve made it a ritual to document the soft things, to report back to the masses that beautiful things happen everyday, even if we are not there to personally witness it.
I feel compelled to tell you about the old man in the supermarket on a video call to his wife showing her the shortage of green beans, and she instructs him to get some cauliflower instead. On Tuesday, I passed by two lovers moving quickly down the road as hailstones fell from the sky. He took off his coat and held it over both of their heads at a traffic stop and I thought how stupidly romantic such a small gesture could be.
I want to tell you about the ladybug that landed on me while I was on a walk. Supposedly the number of spots on them determines how many years of good luck you’ll have. Mine says, I’ll have five. But I hope it’s longer than that.
There’s the mom with the chunky baby carried in front of her, the baby wore a knitted hat with bunny ears and had rosy cheeks. There’s the guy at the gym desk who always says, ‘Have a great day,’ and I wonder how many people respond to him. I hope he has a great day too. A chain reaction of positivity flowing off one another.
I think of the softness that the people around me offer up: my dad telling the same terrible travel jokes everytime we go on a trip together. Maggie does chores while we sit on a call for four hours when we live five thousand miles apart. We laugh till we cry and we’ve been spamming each other memes. It feels good to know that someone else is thinking of me. When pastries and coffee are in discussion, Sabrina is the first person I want to go to. She has the best recommendations and shares my delight in great books. She sends me voice notes and I secretly love it. My mom texts me “I miss you” and “I love you” messages probably too much but I know one day she won’t be on the other end of the line so I tell her I can’t wait to see her soon. When she hugs me, her small arms go all the way around my body and she tells me how I used to be her small baby. I tell her I’ll always be her baby.
I keep an account of anything delicate that might be worth mentioning, of all the softness that the world offers up so on the days that I don’t feel my best, when I get that flutter in my chest and I want to bury myself further into my pillows, I have something to remind me that good is there. It’s here to stay.
You say you’re not good at the soft stuff, but this essay proves otherwise. LOVED it
So needed this today! What a gift!