In the parallel universe where there exists a Catholic me with a godmother, I call Anne Lamott.
Whenever I finish an Anne Lamott book, I feel like our tin-can telephone string has just been pulled taut again, and our houses, never more than yards apart, are somehow dually warmed, root to rafter, by just our words.
My Jonathan gets pseudo-angry when I read Annie. I kind of moan amens as I go, laugh out loud a little, grunt preach from my pew. Again, it’s like that line’s pulled taut, so who’s to say she can’t hear me? Who’s to say she doesn’t know I’m here in Florida feeling all kindred about her?
When I think of godmother situations, I think of freak airplane crashes, fires, and people stranded on those little inflatable boats that last maybe a day or two in the best conditions, which of course, you cannot have if your real boat has just be compromised.
When I think of godmothers, I think of them swooping in. In the parallel universe where I understand football metaphors (this universe sits adjacent to the one wherein there is a Catholic me with Anne Lamott for a godmother), I’d say she’s the Hail Mary Pass of People—the one who comes in, near-extinct eagle style and saves me from ravenous serpents or something dragon-esque and fire-breathing.
When I think of godmother situations, I think of belated birthday cards and random book gifts dropped into the mail which you uncover days later on the dining room table, a veritable chicken noodle soup just lying there in paper packaging, something that means to woo you back to life when you’ve nearly given up all your ghosts.by