I Am Here

When I walk downstairs, I touch the handrail on my right as I go.

It's not a conscious thought, just a place to grab and steady myself as I take a first step. Neither my grip nor the weight of my hand is strong, and my palm is against the wood for only a second.

But after six-and-a-half years, there's a faint yet noticeable spot of wear on the railing from my regular touches. A few inches of dark cherry stain is beginning to rub away, revealing the lighter oak underneath.

It's indelible proof of a habit I didn't realize I had, because it had become so routine. 

I am here.

As a woman, as a mom, I often feel invisible. Clean laundry magically appears in the basket, sinks mysteriously become wiped spotless, permission slips miraculously show up signed and tucked into folders. Little thought is given, even by me, to the things I touch every day. 

I recently noticed this mark on the railing and wondered where it had come from, then realized it's me - it's evidence of my gentle influence through years of up-and-down. It made me wonder what other things and people I touch regularly, impacting them in a slow but profound way, without my knowing.  

Maybe it's the way I kiss the tops of my children's heads as I brush past them in the living room while they watch television. A simple reminder that I see them and I delight in them, even when they're not doing anything remarkable. Maybe these small gestures are what they will remember when they think about unconditional love. 

Maybe it's leaving the kitchen light on for my husband on nights he works late, so he walks into a home that feels warm and full rather than lonely. It's a light that says I remember you're out there in the dark, welcome home. Maybe someday he'll glance at a lone streetlight casting a yellow glow and hope the person standing beneath it feels a measure of comfort like he does. 

Maybe it's my words, these silly black symbols on a white page, that tap on your shoulder and whisper me too. You're not the only one waking and recovering, laughing and seething, sighing and trying again over and over and over. 

Here is proof that I am here, too. Tuck me in your pocket for when you need a reminder.

And sorry about the wear.