Kissy Monster
She was called Kissy Monster by her nephews because of how
she covered them with kisses whenever she saw them. She was killed in the 9/11 terrorist
attacks. I don’t know what her real name
was and I can’t even remember where I read the tribute to her, but as I read it
last year I shivered with grief for her and the thousands of others who lost
their lives that horrific day. I
pictured her nephews squealing with laughter as their energetic aunt wrapped
her arms around them and they squinted their eyes as the kisses landed.
I don’t know anyone who died in the attacks, not even a
friend of a friend who died, but every year on the anniversary, I think about
the typical, everyday people who were going about their lives as they always
did until life stopped abruptly that day.
People were going to work, dropping their kids off at school, running
errands to check off their to-do lists. This seemingly ordinary, mundane life is what
ties us all together. It is exactly what
Kissy Monster and everyone else was up to that day 11 years ago.
For me, 9/11 is a day to be grateful for the glorious
ordinariness of life. My life is filled with routines as tedious as paying
bills, breading chicken, and fighting road rage. When my head hits the pillow I sometimes
wonder if I’ll ever leave a mark on this world in any extraordinary way, but it
has occurred to me that each of us makes a mark. This humdrum drudgery is no drudgery at
all. It is the precise heartbeat of life
and how we maneuver our way through the ordinariness is what lingers in the
minds of those left behind long after we’re gone.
Instead of wondering if I’m leaving a mark, my goal is to
ask myself if I was a good Kissy Monster.
Did I engulf my family with love and laughter? Did I reach out to
friends and hold them close? Did I happily invite the wonderful ordinariness of
life or did I drag my heels complaining that I’m nothing spectacular?
I was reminded of this today as I left the house and my
family came running up to me screaming, “HUGS!” and I doled out my usual dose
of “love bolts” which consists of holding my chest up to theirs and exuding
sounds of electrical bolts shooting love into their chests. I thought of Kissy Monster then and wished I
knew her name. Maybe one day my kids
will give their kids love bolts. I hope
this more than I hope that I succeed in anything else I do in my life.
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