Give Me a Moment, I Dare Ya Give a girl a moment, would ya? Random challenge below Piles of people stressed out in this pursuit of what amounts to nothing. They hate Their job Their house Their life Themselves For what? 80 years old, age spotted hands, lines etched from here to there with memories, does any of it matter? She remembers the way he touched her hair, brushing it behind her ear. The feel of his warm fingertips on her chin as he lifted it...looking into her eyes to say the first I love you. He remembers the time his Daddy got so mad his face matched the red of his hair and he whipped him the entire 1/2 mile walk home from the playmate's house where he was not supposed to be because he'd been so sick with worry. Tucked into bed without any supper that evening, he felt safe and loved. 50 years old and he remembers the joy on his now grown daughter's face the afternoon he missed an important meeting to be at her dance recital. How she introduced him to her friends, their parents, her teachers, people she didn't even know. How "this is my Dad," said with such pride from her sweet face, so like her mother's made him feel prouder than any business deal he'd ever made. He wishes he'd gone more often. 34 years old and I remember a Texas summer day, hot enough to form instant freckles on my skin. Four pre-teens and my mom, on the way to the Ft. Worth zoo. In the little yellow car with cracked, black leather seats and the air conditioner with the unattached to the vent hose. Holding it up to my own face...up to my mom who is smiling. Her perfect blonde hair blowing back from the cool gush of it.  My gorgeous Mama and the little yellow car
My three friends thoroughly squished together in the back seat and giggling in their poodle perms. I stretch the hose back to them, the condensation dripping off of it and onto my thighs. The hot wind from the wide-open windows fighting against any relief...but no one cares. The boom box, with batteries bought just for this occasion, a round robin carousel of Madonna, Michael Jackson, Culture Club, Cyndi Lauper and Wham. All of us singing along. "I wish we could take it in the zoo," I say, "but someone might get mad." "What do we care what someone thinks? There are no rules against it," my mom proclaims, so confident, so beautiful. I’m sure no one would dare so no to her. I feel brave and alive. These little moments of love and kindness carried with us and what we are left with in the end. I challenge you to think about it, write about it here, or on your blog (be sure to send me the link). What will you remember Xangans? Will it be your car, your job, your house? Will you care if you were the cutest, the smartest, the skinniest? Or will it be the stories your mother told of ChinaBerry trees and damp cellars and endless summers with her gang of cousins, as she brushed your hair before bed. The way your best friend held you as you sobbed over lost love. Your grandmother's song for every occasion. The stranger who bought a pack of gum for all four of your children because she could tell you were frazzled. The homemade apple pies, the Sunday dinners. That family reunion where Uncle Carl got so drunk he jumped into the pool fully dressed and made you and your cousin laugh so hard you nearly peed your pants. The homemade Hannah Montana 3D glasses...the lemonade stand. What will it be Xangans? | 
