The words had lost their meaning.
That’s how it felt the morning I went to say the phrase I’ve used so often that its truth had begun to shake. It quivered from out my mouth…
“It’s okay.”
Hollow tin-can, it fell out right flat.
As fake and off-key as the sing-songy tone I use to deliver it. The same tone I hear parrotted back to me from the mouths I helped to create, and the same tones that helped create me…
I loved and hated when I’d hear it, spilling out of my grandmother nearly 20 years ago now.
Yet, here she comes again.
She’s dancing into the room of my mind’s eye, singing like a tone-deaf princess, smelling like sweet syrup and her stinky tabasco sauce. I’m smiling, but let’s face it – she’s waking me on a Saturday morning. I’m annoyed.
The sunshine wants to come in, but I’m still sleepy, fighting the morning light. I’m stretching and groaning, showing her my braces with an orthodontic yawn.
It doesn’t bother her. It only brings more mirth to her eyes.
She’s being super positive. It makes it hard to be a brat.
Yes, it’s okay. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Everything will be fine.
When I’m telling myself that, however, it’s not usually fine. It’s not okay, but I’m looking for the angle.
Give me a minute… I’ll find it.
Pause the movie scene.
Let me turn to you… The fourth wall is broken as I lean in and ask you for that small allowance of time to find the silver lining. I might stumble across it, I whisper, – that little shred of faith we can find in whatever awful thing has transpired – in the space of time it takes me to say that it’s okay … when really, I’m just scrambling. But you’re okay with that, aren’t you?
“It’s okay.”
I grin and shake my head with a little wriggle of positivity.
This is “faking it till you make it.” This kind of sunshine comes after decades of practice, and I’ve always been good at finding it.
My grandmother pinches her lips together and wriggles her nose. Her granny witch magic finds its way back into my dreams, where the knowing happens without words.
It’s okay…
She whispers it into my skin from somewhere in my subconscious. I don’t remember it, but sometimes, I wake with the feeling she’d been holding my hand or combing her fingers through my hair.
And I know it will be… okay.
There are signs.
I don’t will them to come, but they do.
I look up from my writing to see little fairies in the yard. The white pixie bugs are flying all around in front of me for the first time this year.
Catch me, they dare. Catch me if you can. Make a wish, my grandmother’s eyes seem to speak to me, if you dare…
If I dare? I ponder and smile. Maybe I do.
I’m deciding when a car goes by. A friend reaches her hand out the window in my direction. Three times she opens and closes her hand before she’s around the bend and out of sight.
It was a silent thing – no horn honking or shout from the open window. But I felt it.
That’s when I decide.
Before I step onto the grass, I already know I won’t feel a fairy’s touch on my palm. I know it from somewhere deep inside. That intuition won’t keep me away, though. I’ll watch its fluff from afar with a wistful joy on my lips and toes planted firmly on the ground.
It’s the earth my bare feet are seeking. Though, I don’t know it at first. I have to touch it for several minutes before she speaks her peace into my being.
I close my eyes.
The words form and flit away, but the meaning behind them stays. And it tells me what I need to hear… that everything will be okay.