Love and the Rescue Handle (A Lori Tale)
Lori is my child muse. When life is complicated, I bring Lori to me for her innocence and her simplistic views of the world, and the creativity she brings to my work.
ragedy, like fear, is always lurking in some midnight place. I have ridden on the heights of love and sank into despair in the space of an hour, or a day, or all September long. We ride emotions as if they are life’s Ferris wheel, knowing from the heights we will safely descend, waiting for the next go around.
The hearts of children are so sensitive. We shiver with joy at their kisses given, murmur sympathies as we wipe away their tears, and sit beside their bed in the evening light. How many smiles between the noon and the night, tears shed between the Ferris wheel and the ejector seat.
I have these thoughts, sitting on the garden swing of my grandchild, looking over at the plastic castle, its drawbridge, and the water-filled moat where he plays on warm days. I don’t want him to grow up to become a king, just a brave knight, a man brave enough to rescue love.
“This is so much fun, Mr. Harry. I’ve never been to a fairground before,” Lori says, taking my hand and looking up at me.
“Ah, dear Lori, I should have expected you. I’m happy to see you.”
The evening smells of sweetness, candy floss, fragrant, with alluring aromas while a soft summer breeze runs its fingers through Lori’s hair.
Love has always scared me, fearful of the heights, yet never wanting to descend to something less. Love, I learned, is full of collateral damage. Yet still, I say, come then, whoever you are. I promise to find the courage to open myself up to you.
But I know only a brave heart will love such a man.
“Do you think you might be brave enough to take a ride on the Ferris wheel, Lori?”
“I think I’m a little scared, Mr. Harry,” she says looking up at me. The grip of her hand tightened on mine.
When is it we become brave? When did I first imagine myself a knight riding in the moonlight? To defend what? Camelot, not Carmel. Tintagel, not Tiburon. All around the sounds of the children’s voices float upward, stringed vocal cords sounding joy. Rhythms, heartbeats, like distant thunder, blending with the sighs of lovers embracing each other around the Carousel.
“I’d like to ride, Mr. Harry. I can be brave when I’m with you.”
“Yes, Lori, I’ll never let anything bad happen to you,” I tell her.
Lori’s heart is brave enough to ride high into the moonlight. I remember being on my father’s shoulders at the fairground, the barkers barking their endless pitch, penny a go…just a penny…come on now, try your luck…wooden bottles toppling, children screaming delight while I rode above it all. But there comes a time when shoulders won’t offer safety.
When is it we are suddenly old enough to become aware of physical fear, injury, and death?
I recall that fear, heart-stopping, gripping the yellow ejector handle, feeling the rocket-powered seat exploding out of the cockpit. It is a ride into the unknown without the safety of dad’s arms to keep me safe.
Lori’s love is perfect, marvelous, and unforeseen. In her presence, I rediscover a life I once shrank from. Every day I recall love’s depth, its authenticity. How it felt like the Spirt of Vastness collected itself in my heart. Yes, I want my affection to be Lori’s strength. I will never let her wander from that comfort. I won’t.
Next in line, we show our tickets. Under the bright eye of the moon, we climb aboard. Lori shivers — as if gripping the yellow rescue handle.
“I’m here. Lori. You’re safe.”
We leave Earth far behind.
“This is fun, Mr. Harry.”
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