Like An Almost Vow

Like An Almost Vow

I am 7 years old at Bubby's house in the den.

Granddad is teasing, joking -- he's full of tricks.

"Say what I say," he tells me. 

"Just say it fastfastfast."

I nod.  Bite my lip, ready for whatever question will come.

He asks: "I love me who do you love?"

"Me!" I answer, quickly, jumping to my tippy toes to answer fastfastfast.

His face falls.

"What about me?" he asks.  "Don't you love me?"

Shame floods my body as he tells

Bubby, my mother, my aunts and uncles and cousins

that I love myself more than I love him. 

"You've got a big head," he tells me, and that

becomes my nickname.

Big Head.

Today

as I sit next to Bubby's reclining chair in her house in the den,

I hold her hand and

remind her who I am.

She asks,

"Why do you have all those rings on your fingers?"

"I don't know, Bubby," I say. 

"I like them.

This one," I say, pointing to the silver rose I always wear,

"I like because you gave it to me."

She nods.

"I don't know why you wear those things.

You look like you're married to yourself."

I laugh.

"Do you love yourself?" she asks.

My breath almost catches on my answer

but I hear myself say

"I do,"

like a New Year promise

or an almost vow.

She nods

and silence falls between us in

that forgiving place somewhere between

unspoken

and forgotten.