Ephemeral

The theatre, she would say, is ephemeral. Whatever, I thought in my fourteen year old brain. This is I Remember Mama, lady, and Alabama is pretty freakin far off Broadway. But my tweaky drama teacher had a point, it was just a moment in time, never to be again. That is a hard concept for an adolescent, not taking things for granted. You are pretty much trying to ignore everything because you are waiting for your real life to begin. This is just a dress rehearsal until you get a driver's license.

Ephemeral. Not a bad word, though I don't get to use it much. Working it into a sentence would make me sound all farty and pretentious like the drama teacher. I think about it a lot, though. In fact, it is the key to parenting kids whose futures are kinda iffy, in the sense that who the hell knows where we will be tomorrow, much less ten years from now? Nothing like precarious health to remind you to live in the moment. That and giving up on expectations, which is actually a good thing, a really, really good thing.
Every smile, every hug, every kiss is just a bonus, a windfall, like winning money off a scratchy ticket.

I am writing, right now, listening music on my earbuds and Jude is home from school, recovering from the migraine he had last night and dancing in front of the tv, worshipping Bert and Bernice the pigeon in an interpretive dance sort of way that goes surprisingly well with the Ting Tings, and it is ephemeral, a moment in time, a perfect, sweet moment that only comes from releasing what you thought you wanted and letting yourself be carried away by joy, by what tastes exquisite on your tongue right here, right now, and knowing not everyone gets to let go like this. My teacher, not the drama lady with her delusions of grandeur, but my teacher with blond hair, a too small Tigger shirt and a way with words has so much more to teach me, and here I am, ready to learn, not looking forward but satisfied to sit and learn at the feet of the master.