Our bathroom door still carries the scratches our cats left when they were kittens.
Whenever one of us went inside and closed the door, they wanted to come too. Their tiny paws made their feelings about the situation very clear. Being together was apparently something we were supposed to do at all times, including in the bathroom.
I’ve never wanted to paint over those marks.
There’s so much affection in them. That small, urgent wish to be wherever we were. I can almost feel their kitten selves on the other side of the door, insisting on being let into our ordinary lives.
Tonight, I shared a photograph of myself on Instagram. Looking at my face, I noticed how much this summer and fall have left behind. So many new lines, around my eyes. Also a little worry etched between my brows.
Somehow, I found myself thinking about the bathroom door.
These months have felt long and full. There has been a lot to hold, a lot to feel, and a tenderness that sometimes seems almost too large for the body carrying it.
I can see something of that in my face.
Usually, when I look at a photograph of myself, my attention goes straight to the things I might want to improve. You probably know that quick little inspection we do. The picture has barely appeared before we begin making adjustments in our minds.
This evening, I felt affectionate towards the face looking back at me.
It has been here with me through all of it.
I thought about the marks we come to love in a home. The place on a book’s spine where it always falls open. A handwritten note tucked between its pages. Scratches left by a small creature who wanted very badly to be near us.
Love becomes visible in such ordinary ways.
On a door. In a photograph. Across a face.
And sometimes, once we recognise it, we want to leave the evidence exactly where it is.
That’s how I feel about these lines tonight. There’s a little of this summer in them. A little of everything my heart has held.
Some things are too full of love to smooth away.
I’d love to hear about a mark, an object, or some small trace of a life shared that you’ve chosen to keep. Something whose meaning would be impossible to explain to anyone who only saw its surface.
To reply, just hit the reply button, and my email address will pop in automatically.
With love,
Monica from North
Ps. If you like, you can actually listen to my letter online. Just click here: Listen online