My dear little boy. How you rant and rave, how you cry and scream. You say things like "stupid mum" and "I hate you mum" and "I don't want to be with you, I want to be with Dad." You punch my bottom, pinch my thighs, you bight my arm. And then you bury your head in that same bottom, hold my thighs, take my arm and put my hand in your lap.
"Mummy I want to be with you," you say and you plead and you are about to rant and rave, to cry and scream all over again. Dad and I look at each other. Here we stand, your Mum and Dad. We are to know. We are to do this right.
I bend my knees so that I am your height. And I hold you and I say, "it's okay. It'll be okay." I'm lying though, aren't I? I'm lying to you, my dear little boy. And next I say, "four nights with mummy. Three nights with daddy. That's how it is."
"But why?"
"Because."
I look at Dad again. Why? Because. That's all we know. Because.
A woman smokes on her balcony. I can see her and like to think she can't see me. I hardly ever sit, and now that I am sitting - simply for the mere act of sitting - I look out the window at her. God do I wish I was smoking that cigarette. Short drags, defiant puffs of smoke. She flicks the butt over the balcony. She is skilled at it.
After that she steps inside. She takes a framed black and white photo down from her wall, replaces it with a painting. Both pieces are equally grey. She walks away from the wall, then suddenly turns, as if wanting to catch herself off guard, understanding her own immediate thought. She bobs her head to the right, then left.
Will she leave the painting there, I wonder? Which memory is more important? The one that reminds her of a summer in Cuba with the husband she no longer has? Or the one she has inherited from her parents? She had so wanted that painting. She had ached from desiring it so much.
"I never do this," she had said to her brother, "you know that, don't you? So I feel weird doing this. But I'm going to tell you I really want that painting."
Her brother had put his hand on it, had brushed the dust off its frame.
"I remember looking at it," she said, "every day." Her voice had sounded whiny. "Or do you really want it?"
"Oh no," her brother had said. See, he was the one who never did that, that thing she just did. He lifted his hand and stepped away from the painting to make coffee. Now, she no longer wanted it.
"Actually," she said, "why don't you take it?"
"But I don't want it," he said.
"No, please. Really, I want you to have it," she pleaded. But he quickly picked up a different painting. "I like this one just as much," he said, while smiling at it.
By now, she had come to detest the thing. And still, she hung it against her wall.
Little boy.
You are too young to feel shame, too young to take blame; blame for the tears.
Too old to cry, too old to lie; lie about fears.
Little girl.
You are too young to be pretty, too young to feel pity; pity for this world.
Too old to shine, too old to whine; whine and feel hurt.
Little boy and little girl. That time will come; to feel, to see, to breathe, to flee.
Until then, just be.
The world keeps spinning. And sometimes, you feel like you're not a part of it. There's two things you can do. Panic, which is what your ego is telling you to do. Or be still. Ask yourself whether you really want to be a part of your ego's world, or prefer to be in yours.
Your own world. Keep it spinning.
