I Hope

I hope you're with your family today or friends you love very much. 

I hope you spend this day with your congregation or your neighbors or your one special person.

I hope you touch them with your hands, embracing them even if they, or you, aren't the touchy-feely type.

I hope you look into those people's eyes, living now with them, filling them up with how much you love that they are here with you.

I hope your television stays dark today, darker than the longest night sky, and instead you sing some songs, dance, and, of course, tell stories you've told again and again until they're frayed at the edges: stories that are the continuation of the ones that we've told since the beginning of people. I hope today you'll add a new thread to our story, that one that goes back so far no one can say who first told it. 

I hope you sit on laps or too closely on the sofa or forehead-to-forehead and giggle about something that no one else would find funny, breathing the moist laughter you make together.

I hope you play as if you are a child.

I hope you do it all again and again and again, every day, every moment, until you are the story we celebrate together on this day each year.

I hope that you know you are my story and that I love you. 

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