It isn’t every day you find someone in the midst of ‘doing’ their passion, so when you see someone living from the molten core spoon of that place, you could find yourself helpless to avoid the taste of enthusiasm overflowing from their eyes like hot fudge dripping over the whipped cream of a banana split.
Do you remember your first banana split?
Two lovers built my first one together when I was a child. Bob and my mom were friends for reasons I’ll never know, but I suspect he and his boyfriend babysat me on occasion because I don’t otherwise understand why I spent so much time with them.
Bob was the fairest skinned person I’d ever seen. He was as waif-like as I think someone can be without toppling over from hunger, and this was in spite of the enormous red Annie-reminiscent afro he had. Up to that point in life, I’d never been so comfortable with a man as I was with Bob and his soft-spoken demeanor. But if you paid me a million dollars, I’d still not remember his boyfriend’s name. I only remember they left me in front of the tv to watch the Three Stooges one Saturday before teaming up in the kitchen to return to me soon after with a banana split, a fairytale concoction I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams.
I don’t remember what it tasted like, nor do I remember if I let it melt or ate it all and asked for more. I only remember that on that day, two men who seemed to love each other thought it would be nice to make something sweet for me as a surprise, and then sit with me like I mattered.
Passion is always moving. It drives people to do unexpected things that catch others off guard, and sometimes it affirms you mean something more than the nuisance you feel to be, for the burden you know others find in seeking space to hide or detain your feral mind.
Each year as winter approaches, I ask myself to be honest about the temperature at which I’m moving.
If it’s determined that I’m moving through the world with decidedly less heat than it takes to melt the sweetness that rests above my heart’s fireplace, I implore myself to stoke that fire with the kind of love that creates an inviting space for a soul to rest before taking leave, only to reappear with a cherry on top of the sweetness of life.