It’s a funny thing. You hit 48, well into that territory at which you can be definitively described as “pushing” fifty, and you’re gay, you’re content with an ordered, adventurous, artistic life of one new challenge after another, and suddenly—everything’s new, and different.
It was a rough start.
Continue reading“Jeez. Does every single one of these come with a whole cup of sugar?” I muttered, looking at the labels on the jars of spaghetti sauce while Little Miss rocked on her petite green customer-in-training shopping cart.
“Sugar, sugar, sugar.”
“Joebie?”
“Yes?”
“You’re just like daddy,” she said. I paused, holding the one jar of sauce I’d found that wasn’t essentially tomato-based pie filling.
“You mean because I keep going on about sugar?”
“No. You’re nice to me and you take care of me and you talk to me like daddy.”
“Well, that’s easy, hon, because you’re smart and amazing and fun as all get-out!”
“But you always help me and play with me like daddy does. Why do you do that?”
“Well, your daddy does that because he’s smart and amazing and he loves you like crazy. That’s what daddies do, just like mommies, and step-parents, and aunts and uncles, and anyone else who sees you for how rare and special you are.”
“But…but…why do you help me and take care of me?”
“Because you’re fantastic and amazing and you make me very, very happy. And you can always, always call on me whenever you need anything I can give you.”
“Because you love me like crazy?”
My heart lodged in my throat. What a strange, complicated, unexpected, and expansive year it’s been.
“Yes indeed, sweet pea.”
“Can we get Fruit Roll-Ups?”
“No, alas. Such is the nature of my concern for your wellbeing that I feel compelled to curtail your access to industrial quantities of sugar.”
The woman picking through alfredo sauces paused, and looked at me as if to ask why I’m being so ornately verbose in my conversation with such a young child, but it is never too soon to share the love of a language that nourishes me. I merely smile as if to convey that I am in conversation with a mind that hears every detail, even if she sometimes takes a while to process and analyze.
“Cur-what? But they’re good. Pleeeeeease?“
“Darlin’, we are going to make an apple crisp for dessert tonight that is so sublimely sweet and nuanced in its subtlety that it will at least momentarily displace the appeal of Fruit Roll-Ups in the catalogue of your earthly desires.”
“I don’t think so. Fruit Roll-Ups are very very very good.”
“You’ll see, sweet pea.”
Like crazy.
©2017 Joe Belknap Wall
Little Miss has gotten wise.
“Hon, would you please take three and a half big bites of your quesadilla and eat one more piece of your turkey “sausage” before you go play with Ashley and Madison in the pavilion?”
“The sausage is too spicy.”
“If your mouth catches fire, I will get a fire hose and heroically extinguish the conflagration.”
“The confla-whaaa?”
“Conflagration. It means an out-of-control and thoroughly dramatic collaboration of flames.”
A petite head tilts, accompanied by the semiotics of “huh?” It is a similar display to when Little Miss’s new friend pointed to Gentleman Caller and asked, innocently, if that was Daddy, if was I her grandfather, but I am nothing if not a master of restraint.
“Big fire, sweetpea.”
“Ah.”
“You need to eat that so you’ll have energy to play. Also, if you leave food behind, a bear may wander into the camp and eat the rest of your breakfast.”
A small eyebrow lifted gently in a way that made me happy for all mankind.
“I know you’re the actual bear, Joebie.”
“Do you, now?”
“Yes. Joebie?”
“Yes?”
“How do I eat three and a half bites? What’s a half bite?”
“An interrupted bite. Like you started and then were distracted by a sudden insight into Wittgenstein.”
The tilt returns, then levels out.
“I like when you make jokes, Joebie.”
“I’m absolutely one hundred and eleven percent serious at all time, sweetpea.”
Eyes roll. It’s a new skill, but she shows promise. Middle school is going to be terrifying.
“Umm, Joebie?”
“Yep.”
“Did a bear wander into camp and eat the rest of my cotton candy?”
“I’m afraid so. We’re all lucky to have survived!”
“Hmph.”
“I think I see Ashley and Madison getting on their scooters, sugarhoof. Perhaps you should join their entourage.”
“Entour-whaaa?” she starts to say, but takes off instead to join a scooter gang.
Every day is renewed, and renewing.
©2017 Joe Belknap Wall