It’s not the web savvy, the inventive updates on the DMC site ( linked here as Driving Miss Craisy) or the fact that she buys the voice recognition software and offers to install it plus more RAM on my computer. It’s not the delicious wheat-free, dairy-free baked goods that keep appearing – green, not green – all scrumptious. It’s not all the sewing – making clasps into magnets, rendering un-wearable clothes easy to navigate. It’s not the rides, so many rides, that often come with a snack or the fact that she’s accompanying me to Greece.
It’s the way she sings and dances her heart out to Earth, Wind and Fire, Ohio Players and Prince. It’s her inner “music yenta” that makes her call and insist I buy tickets to Stevie Wonder, Flight of the Conchords, Herbie Hancock, James Taylor. It’s the way she cried before I had a clue I was really sick and pleaded with me to go to the doctor. Then called again the next AM to nag. It’s how she looks like a hobbit bride when she stands at the front door at Mt. Herman and how she’s raised these two amazing girls I love. How her kindness and unforced generosity has leaked into them so that her daughter offers to move into her sister’s room so I can move in. How that daughter phones her mom who is tending to my broken heart and says “I’m making dinner – tell Carla there’s enough for her to join us.” She’s 13 by the way.
It’s how she holds my secrets, urges me on to write ( always has), comes up with solutions to problems I didn’t even know I had. It’s watching her run through a sprinkler in a polka dot bubble dress, offer to bake me special brownies, and it’s her urging me to be more cautious, use the wheelchair more. “I just want to wrap you in bubble wrap and protect you” she says, then after hanging up the phone realizing I’m too stubborn to pay her mind, it’s how her solution is to sew a bubble wrap dress with purple trim. It’s how I know she’s teary right now as she reads this.
But mostly I think, it’s her dancing.