"Lucy's ball got broken." Between thumb and forefinger Joe displays a green bouncy ball. A jagged rip now plied together with tape, he rotates his work.
"Oh," I say. "Who taped it?"
"It just got bounced so hard it went splat," he says. He wrinkles his forehead, blink-blink.
"Who taped it?" I say.
"Well," he lulls. "Uh, hm... it got bit." He hangs his chin, nods, droops the corner of his mouth down, down, down toward his chin. He flaps a hand as if conducting orchestra.
"Who taped it?" I say. "Did you?"
"Yeah." He talks in kid-bass, wells disappointment.
"Did you bite it?" I say.
"Um."
"Was it you?"
"Yeah." The truth culled out, he deflates to repentant puppy, his peripheral vision fixed on my eyes. Something like relief, like a long, long exhale, comes lose, unravels, a whole skein piled there between us.
"Ah," I say. He waits. I let him. He squirms. "Go potty," I finally say. "We'll talk about this more when you get back."
"Okay," he bursts all symphony and trumpets. All that tape and he couldn't stop himself. The truth whiled itself out, as if a creature all it's own. It's tenacious that way, big enough to fill the sky, small enough to slip in my pocket. It's the third party in every conversation just waiting to be a skein of relieve between us.
Gratitude:
5749. A Call To Prayer by J.C. Ryle. I'm halfway through it. It's the best book on prayer I've ever read.
5750. Popcorn and ginger ale.
5751. We celebrate Craig's birthday at home with board games and snacks.
5752. Noodles Alfredo, salad, open-faced corned beef sandwiches, family dinner takes a delicious turn. The best part is just being together.
5753. Friends invite us over for salmon. The whole big crew of us, but the night slips away effortless like water. Ten o'clock we head home full of joy.
5754. Dinner on the farm is always good. We enjoy Saturday lunch with Craig's family. The slow pace refreshes.
5755. Joey figures out how to fry eggs all on his own. Mirth unbridled, he cooks four panfuls before I realize and reign him in.
5756. We watch the Super Bowl together. Joe betrays our love of politics when he keeps calling the big game The Debate.
5757. Betsy continues to cruise along furniture and finagle her way to just about anywhere. Her use of sigh language explodes.
5758. Craig and I finally see the new Star Wars movie.
5759. The weather gradually changes, a little less bitter cold, less dank, more rain, less snow. We set our sights on a spring garden and our hearts on the future.
"The truth whiled itself out, as if a creature all it's own. It's tenacious that way, big enough to fill the sky, small enough to slip in my pocket. It's the third party in every conversation just waiting to be a skein of relieve between us."
ReplyDeleteTruth. Haven't heard a better description.
Dare you to make this into a poem. Open it up. Let it breathe on its own. Poetry--the best of it is alive because of truth.