Nora's 4 year check-up was today.
"And did you know? I love you." Nora's doctor stopped there leaning over slightly in her rolling chair, looking at her patient, hands frozen in place. We were suddenly so present, pulled into the actuality of the situation by the girl I live with and love. "I love you, too, Nora." And I knew Dr. R did. And they hugged. And when they finished, Nora looked at Dr. R and hugged her again.
My mom was there, and she was crying. Written on the wall were the words:
Believe in Miracles. How often do the walls speak so literally?
The small, sterile room became sacred suddenly; it exhaled a breath, invited warmth, something human, something divine. And I was learning something: that I wish we said "I love you" more often, not just to our family or our friends but to all our neighbors. I mean, why not? My girl has hutzpah, the kind that loves the world without the fear of rejection. This is what it means to love with abandon. "What? You can't handle this love? Too bad! I just gave it to you! You don't scare me! I love you!"
What do you think would happen? We exit the bus: "Thanks! I love you!"
We turn down the telemarketer, "Not today, but I love you!"
The janitor standing stunned in the hallway, the mop stuck to the shock of it: "I love you. A lot."