Posted Monday, October 17th, 2011
"I don't want him to be a brat," I tell the first Emily.
"I know," she says. "Mine either. It's too bad we have to do more than we thought we would to prevent it."
The second Emily is whispering in a velvet ear of our 90 pound puppy. Her boy is away, a summer agreement.
My Lucien has thrown a sandal at the grill, knocking hot coals and cheese sandwiches to the bricked-over ground. "That's three," I tell him. Misbehaviors involving fire are straight-to-three offenses. I lead him to his room for time out. Our friend Lacey calls it reflection. We pass her; she is nursing baby Shawn at the table. Lucien squirms and wails, twisting away from me. "I'm sorry you feel bad," I tell him. "But because you threw your sandal at the grill you will have a time-out." He sits on the bed, crumply faced, arms crossing.
I want to give him everything, let him throw sandals with slingshots, with a launching pad onto a 20 foot pyre. But I remember the men who were allowed such things.
The husbands are away now.
Reflection ends and we all dance under the full moon as the purple sky fades dark in the west, candles in buckets flickering citronella. "What about the Goddess?" Lucien asks. My mind slides sideways, adrenaline rushing, synapses firing, joy spilling into every inch of the night, and we stretch our arms higher.
Comments [post a comment]
Posted by Donna Levy [ firstname.lastname@example.org
] on Monday, October 17th, 2011 at 2:32 PM
You accomplished so much in seven short paragraphs. The story stands on its own. Bravo! Donnachka