Adrift. A sea of pea coats. Pearly lights. Dancing store signs. “Um."
His small hand in mine was the one solid thing. His blue eyes were on me. The crease between his eyebrows sharpened. I laughed uneasily.
I'm sure I'd cried at a mall before. I cried in dozens of places. Schools, wedding venues, pubs, showers, beds. A lifetime ago.
(Irony: Mostly it was the kids —in fair isle sweaters they would never pick themselves— losing it and not their parents. Outwardly, anyway!)
AP had found two pennies at the mall, given me one of his wishes. “What's your wish, mommy?”
I swept my wet eyelids under my glasses. “For next year to be easy. Because this year was really hard.”
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“What's a year?”
“Well, it's November now and this year is almost over. Then it will be next year.”
Time is a sixth sense that only adults have. So what do kids see? They witness everything. Your lowest of lows. They unknowingly (or knowingly, depending on age and temperament) pick at your own deepest childhood hurts.
Their adult-sized eyes bore right through you from a small face, perhaps creating the illusion that they understand more than they do.
Half of what you say breezes right by them. Your motivations remain murky to them. They intone, "why?" "Why?” And it’s harder to lie to this face than it is to lie to myself.
He must find me equally inscrutable: going from not crying for months (menopause) to this. Everything was off the table before.
It helps to remember that I'm not unique; the only certainty in life is uncertainty. It's a comfort when I let it be. Stability, sure. But I'd still like to be surprised, disabused of my illusions. Wrong sometimes. (My gut was to use an exclamation point here but that's a defense mechanism. When I hit a nerve too close to the truth.)
A moored life needs work.
Miscellany
“What do you think about this art?” I asked AP. I found it disquieting myself. Metallic smears by an unsettled mind.
Lately, he’s been telling me what he thinks is good or bad art and why. It’s fascinating. We all have visceral reactions to art (which we bury with words, and how we want to be perceived). For him it’s right at the surface.
I encourage him to be thoughtful, but trust his instincts. It’s a page out of his book that I should also take.
“A forest in the Winter. I see some green in each one.”
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