Above the bunting, up that little ladder, is my daughter’s loft this week while she’s convalescing from a cold. The other night she placed her laptop on top of the fridge and leaned over her perch above the dining/living area to DJ for us all night – Billie Holiday, the Ink Spots, and whichever bands Grandpa requested from the kitchen table. My dad and Sean sang along while they drank wine. Three generations meeting up somehwere in Copenhagen to celebrate those 50 reasons.
On Sean’s 50th birthday in August he came home to a sign on the door and a lemon tart and ‘happy birthday’ spelled out in flour on the countertop, and a kitchen strung with bunting – 50 triangles – one for each year of his life, and on each one a reason why I love him. I looked back over three years of journal entries for the reasons/ memories to compile my little triangular stories.
When it was time to take the bunting down, the traingles fit perfectly into a triangle- shaped box I made from pizza and milk cartons. In essence it’s a little book, the pages connected with twine.
Sean surprised me by bringing his birthday bunting to Copenhagen. He strung it along the rafters of the kitchen – a wonderful reminder of why I’m marrying this incredible man.
Instead of a marriage certificate we should trail our bunting into the gorgeous Copenhagen town hall and ask them to sign, stamp, certify, and notarize every last one of them. Each of our reasons for marrying would be legalized in English and Danish.
There were actually many more than 50 but they wouldn’t fit in the box any longer and the reasons kept (keep) multiplying….!
Here is a rare shot of my daughter being terrestrial after hopping down from the heavens above the kitchen. I keep thinking how nice it is to constantly have her above us while we cook – to be able to call her name and get an immediate response from the attic space of my thoughts.
Years ago when she was twelve we lived in a 400-year old cottage in Oxfordshire, a rambling old turreted wonder, and she used to send me love notes through her floor boards which would flutter down into my art studio. She has always been above me, both literally and often figuratively, the little Buddha that she is.
Speaking of wisdom, last month in Florence I told her that she should be my personal Jiminy Cricket, on my shoulder, always there, always close at hand whispering in my ear.
Everyone should have a benevolent and cozy spirit like her hiding in the rafters. After she moves away from home I will pretend she’s still there.
As I write this, Sean is sewing my wedding dress at the foot of our airbnb bed and I can hear Lvovy and Grandpa laughing in the kitchen.
My grandfather Papa loved the song “Sunny side of the street” – it’s a drizzly Scandinavian evening but I’ve got more sun than I know what to do with.