Quilled Vows
By Neidy Hess
@neidyhess
I stumbled towards the coffee maker and my 3-year-old stuck a sticky note to my pajama pants. My husband stepped into the kitchen from the garage and brushed off light flakes of snow. His tired eyes met mine after a long night of work. Night shifts have their difficulties, but I like meeting him in the morning. I unstuck my note from my leg and moved my eyes toward it. He wrinkled his brow, smiled, and inquired, “Oh, you haven’t seen that?”
He left me a note behind our son’s chair before his shift. I shook my head and grinned as my eyes wandered back to his quickly scribbled encouragements that he often writes—what a sincere good morning.
“Hey :)
Hope you got to bed early enough.
I’m so thankful for you, that the kids have you as a mom, and how Christlike you are.
I love you <3”
I placed my special message back in its original place on my son’s chair. I prepared my cup of coffee while closing my eyes and rereading his words in my mind. His frequent messages are sweet whispers of our past, present, and future. His note will probably float throughout our house like a Forrest Gump feather as a gentle reminder that his words are a visual devotion to us and our marriage.
***
Tidying up takes up a significant amount of time for me. While I don’t hoard things, I stuff tiny pieces of paper in crevices like journals, jewelry boxes, dresser drawers, and edges of nightstands. Sometimes they’re idle receipts, weeks-old to-do lists, or the random gel pen drawing from my daughter. Even if they have no merit, I always pause to read them as if they contained some sort of missing clue to something I’ve forgotten, perhaps a piece to a torn map. Usually, I sigh and collect them until I get to the nearest trash can. But sometimes, I enjoy getting lost in these reminiscences.
A few days ago, while I was dusting my bookshelf, I noticed a journal hiding among dust bunnies. Its elastic band lost its elasticity over the years, pages were dog-eared, and stains covered the front. The spine cracked as I opened it, and I immediately went straight to the back where an envelope encased its protected contents. It was a treasure trove of little thoughts, to-do lists, sermon notes, doodles, and musings.
In the pocket, I also found old boarding passes, a 10-year-old ticket to SeaWorld, and a cherished discovery—carefully preserved letters from my husband’s time in Afghanistan. I gingerly opened each one, scanning for the date: July 2010, December 2011, and five others with various dates.
I walked over to my bed and sat down while sorting the letters into specific stacks—from his deployment immediately before we married and the next deployment immediately after. The first letters were full of anticipation. Plans made to go to the beach, picnics, and longings for his future Mrs. I gushed as I perched with my sorted letters. My face squeezed out a smile. The later letters were full of desperation—a hope to see our first-born even though we both knew it wouldn’t be until after the baby was born. The spaces were full of unwritten pining for home. The bittersweetness that coated these letters gave me a sense of gratitude for where we were now. The anticipated baby was now old enough to turn away and gag when my husband and I would steal a kiss.
“What are you up to?”
My husband peered into our room, and I displayed his letters as if they hid behind glass cases. He walked into our room to join in the nostalgia. He knelt beside me and placed his head on my shoulder. We laughed at the more comical moments and blushed when we came across ultra gooey promises as if, all these years later, marriage had hardened us.
***
The leaves beneath my feet snapped like old joints bent out of shape. My chest tightened. I took a deep breath—blood rushed to my cheeks. I closed my eyes and repeated the tempered words that we had said to each other just moments before. I stepped out to walk in the stillness of the night. I didn’t want to return too soon.
I looked up toward the sky and watched its darkness. Would it spell out the answer I needed or give me the clarity I desired? I paced aimlessly in circles. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.
I opened my garage, wondering if anyone would hear the loud screeching metal door at ten at night. My latest project lay on our garage’s ground—a 1940s chalkboard that desperately needed new paint. I stepped towards it, hunched down, and got to work. I callously ripped painter’s tape, intending to mend something other than the chalkboard. Rip, tape, swipe, spray. Rip, tape, swipe, spray. These were the mechanical sounds of completing a project that I wanted to finish, yet done so with apathetic passion. With each breath, I filled with anxious hope of not only restoring my chalkboard to its former glory but also restoring my relationship. I looked to the door—I was ready to go back in.
I picked up the tape pieces, placed caps on spray paint bottles, and leaned my repaired chalkboard against the wall. I hesitated as I put my hand on the doorknob but knew I wanted to apologize. The creaking door from the garage into the kitchen announced my arrival. Even though the kitchen isn’t far from our living room, it felt like I was looking far into the distance. I made my way into our living room. The couch sunk around him as if it, unsuccessfully, tried to comfort him. I sat down, cross-legged on our ottoman in front of him. I was ready to make peace.
The next morning, a sticky note surprised me—he had never left me a note before. He placed it right next to my coffee mug. Under his message, he signed “UDE”—his acronym for up quarks, down quarks, and electrons. I stifled a laugh as it reminded me of his quirky hobby of listening to podcasts about space—something he picked up while he was in Afghanistan. The way he signed this gently reminded me of our place in the universe and how lovely it was that our atoms collided at just the right time. These supernatural notes make way for me like the last goose in a v-formation. It gave my heart hope for another day.
***
Through the days, I come across these floating sticky notes around various rooms in our home like manna. I have the same conflict each time: do I throw it away, or do I keep it? I resort to the “stick” test—if it sticks, it stays, but if the adhesive is worn off, I’ll throw it away. To my delight, the note that clung to my son’s chair maintained its cohesion.
At some point, I moved the sticky note to the coffee maker. Needing an espresso to make it through the rest of the day, I prepared my cup while picking up this paper nomad. Like the espresso shot, I take in its words and how he sees me.
“Thankful for you...”
“..the kids have you...”
“I love you…”
His words gave me the focus to work on the daily, mundane tasks set before me. I trace my finger on the back of its adhesive back, its back covered with various floating threads, bread crumbs, and the like.
“Mommy, what’s that?”
“Oh, it’s just a note.”
“From who?”
“Daddy.”
“That’s nice.”
It’s just a note—but its words will float around my heart like quilled feathers writing vows of devotion.
Guest essay written by Neidy Hess. Neidy (pronounced nay-dee) is a writer, editor, and home educator. She lives on the Iowa side of the Omaha metro and is mamá to three incredible niños and the proud wife to Zach.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.