easter in the garden
Photo by Billy
William and I spent some of Easter Sunday in the Garden. Me picking chickweed and him collecting handfuls of dandelions and violets from our so-called lawn. Growing up, we always went to church on Easter, and once I sung in front of our whole congregation, a watery, mostly white group of folks who offered thimbles of grape juice as the blood of Christ (a far cry from the all black church we visited when home in Carolina)…
Parenthood has made me consider religion newly. Even if I flail in my own lack of faith, I still have the thin thread of memory connecting me to the trail of plastic easter eggs hidden in the lawn. I wonder now what William will have, and me with him. I imagine myself like Barabbas—in Pär Lagerkvist’s 1950 novel by the same name—except instead of the Romans harassing me about the fish tattooed on my arm, it’ll be militant mommies at playgroup.
Easter egg hunt? they’ll say. But you’re not Christian–
And all I’ll be able to say is, Yeah, sure, but I sorta sometimes want to believe.
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Filed under writing | Comment (1)strong silent type
Photo by Billy
Lately William is full of words, but I’m all out. I used them all up completing the last of my middle school stories—part of a collection of interrelated tales set in a small fictional Virginia town.
Tomorrow I will send the whole manuscript to my agent (hooray), or try to find a few generous friends willing to read it (readers, you rock), or ask Billy to read all of it again (thanks, Billy).
But for tonight, it’s quiet time.
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Filed under writing | Comments (3)the girl with the pink barbie jeep
from the baby landscapes series
Photo by Billy
“Mama, noise?” William says pointing.
I look up. Toddlers and mamas all over the playground are doing the same. Tiny curled fingers from all sides point awkwardly toward a dull roar that sounds like a lawn mower gone wrong.
Then we all see it, careening over the hill onto the grass: a pink Barbie jeep driven by a four year old wearing matching pink barrettes. She barrels past the jungle gym, beneath the swing set, and around the budding oak trees. Tricyclists topple out of the way; squirrels scurry out onto long, limber branches. Soft spring grass peels away as she skids onto the basketball court.
“Tractor!” William says excitedly as he points and makes a beeline for her.
The girl’s mother appears a moment later, talking on a cellphone. “Keep off the grass, darling,” she says with a soft southern drawl. She sits on the hill while the pink-pigtailed-Barbie-jeep-girl does doughnuts and figure 8′s.
William has tugged me away from his beloved slide to be near her. “Mama,try? Try? Please. Pleassseeeee?” he says. The girl sees his want, narrows her eyes, and guns the engine.
The girl in the pink Barbie jeep is no Sunday driver; she shifts up into second, the engine grows louder, and she plows into a metal utility box.
For a moment everything is quiet: we can hear kids playing, birds chirping unseen from above. Stilled, we can see the little girl’s pink freckles; her hot pink cheeks.
“I’m stuck, mama,” she calls, near tears now. She spins her wheels futilely, kicking up mulch and grass. Park-goers seem to breathe a collective sigh of relief.
Her mother is still on the phone, sitting on the incline a few feet away from us. “Reverse, darling,” she calls out. “Put’er in reverse.”
The little girl’s face draws in focus.
She fidgets,
finds reverse,
and turns poised and ready into the sunny spring afternoon.
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funny face
Photo by Billy
Here is William at the Cirque Du Soleil demonstration at the local children’s museum…
Are clown noses always ironic?
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Filed under writing | Comment (0)the middle of the night
William’s allergic reaction
Photo by Billy
William is suffering through an allergic reaction to antibiotics; for three nights he has woken up in the middle of the night scratching at his legs and face and back. We wake too, slather him in lotion, try futilely to rock him back to sleep.
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