Work lets me off at Noon!
It's their 3-day holiday weekend gift to us.
I could get used to this place.
I wrap up my duties by one, close the lid.
Push out of my chair,
take numb legs for a stroll
through the house.
Gather my bearings as a
newly free human
with hours on my side.
Crawl in bed and watch
the last two episodes
of BEEF, limited series,
first season.
The plot, the sound effects
the dialogue, the sets, the costumes.
The wondering in the desert.
The melding of realities and fates.
The inescapability of karma.
It's thrilling, it's deranged;
I love it.
But then, abruptly, it's over.
Credits roll.
I shake my head;
my limbs are numb again.
Still have time to kill;
what a strange feeling.
Decide to be nice
to my soon-to-be-home child.
Because unlike many of her classmates,
we're not hitting up Dulles International Airport
— in these Tariff Times?
Thank you, no! —
for a long weekend of
jet-setting travel
and time zone twister.
Instead, I prepare
a list of errands that
can masquerade
as afternoon adventures:
pick up some Girl Scout badges
grab some groceries;
figure out a dinner plan
and see where the
rain-slick streets carry us.
Hear the front latch jiggle;
convince the kid to meet me in the car.
We wind our way out of the hood
on roads scattered with fallen branches
and clusters of acid lime-green oak leaves.
We drive to the village
buy impromptu unnecessaries
at the local market:
Cherry Spindrift, and passionfruit, too.
Frozen macaroni balls
and marshmallows, jumbo,
three vats of ice cream,
one oat mylk for him.
Next:
a series of staccato
questions, hers, and answers, mine:
"Can I get Medjool dates?" She asks.
"Sure." I reply.
"Can I get cookies?"
"Fine."
"Can I get blackberries?"
"As long as you eat them!"
"Can I get fancy tea?"
"As long as you share!"
Lightning Round:
"Can I get a frozen pizza?"
"No."
She begins to frown.
"Not here...
"Why don't you order a fresh one?"
Her eyes blink.
I urge her, again, to order pizza.
"Whatever you want, here's my card."
She looks as me with shock,
I am not normally This Mom.
But I'm feeling generous, untethered.
It's a rainy Friday in May.
Let's extract the magic from it somehow.
I send her ahead to the corner shoppe.
I pay and haul bags through the downpour.
I hoist wet sacks into my trunk.
I drive from one lot to another,
to be closer to her.
We wait in a booth
away from the cashier
the wafting aromas of oregano
and fire-baked dough
permeating our nostrils.
When it's time, we splash through
heavy raindrops to the vehicle.
She positions the hot pie atop her thighs,
the one she chose with mushrooms
and olives and sausage balls,
and she sighs, reverently.
It's the little things, I think.
Maybe I'm onto something.
= = =
It may be the official start of summer
but we're feeling winter goblin energy.
We pull in to home,
change into PJs.
Open chocolates,
rustling noisy plastic
and foil wrappers.
We make tea,
squeeze honey.
find several blankets and pillows;
burrow into the sectional in the den.
We couch rot until Dad arrives
upon which we use
our sedentary siren calls
to lure him in to our couch trap.
He joins us in flannel jams
and a soft tee.
We don't leave the couch
nor the bright screen until bedtime.
While the rains pelts away at
our roof overhead
we escape into the melodrama
and mysteries of Widow Bay.
We may not have left town,
but we have made our own escape.
