Posted on | September 9, 2015 | No Comments
This whole damn thing was bullshit. He didn’t know half of the people who had thrown themselves into
his personal space between last night and now, claiming to have loved his dad or to have known Max since he was “just this high.”
It was all such bullshit.
And the damnedest thing of all was how this had all happened. How had this all happened, anyway, he wondered? One minute life was plodding along as normal and the next everything was one giant cluster of madness and well, bullshit. He almost smiled as the word flashed in again. He should have worn that t-shirt that Desmond had given him last year that just said “Life is Bullshit, then you Die.” His mother would have croaked but damn, it was the truth. Life was bullshit and this was more bullshitty than even that.
He wished his sister would pick up the pace a little. He just wanted to get past this moment of walking by
the casket and paying his respects. He just wanted to walk past and then to turn his back to his father and keep
walking out the far back door of the church and never look back. But of course he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. He was the golden boy, his mother’s pride and joy. He’d bow and curtsy and do all the things he was supposed to do to
appease that hidden space in her eyes that only came out when no one else was watching. He knew Kate thought
their mother was a robot, barely capable of human emotion, but she was wrong.
Their mother was a force of nature; all hurricane winds and sharp, violent lightening. Only she kept it all tamped down with her crazy ass belief that propriety was more important. Just once, he wished that Kate could see their mother the way he had that day. He shook the memory out of his head. It hurt to think about. He looked down at his feet then up again to meet the eyes of his nephew who blinked both eyes in his version of a wink. Max winked back and tousled his hair a little, tugging at the curls the way his dad used to do to Max.
His dad. They’d moved forward now and Max found himself staring down at the serene face before him.
He barely looked like the same man, all smoothed out and ironed in a way that only death could perfect. This wasn’t the man he’d known, not really. Although, hell, he’d never really known his dad to begin with. Who out there actually knew their parents anyway.
This was all such bullshit.
Posted on | September 9, 2015 | No Comments
Kate could barely believe it. Her mother was actually showing emotion. It was as though someone flipped the
“acknowledge sorrow” switch in the back of her robot brain and this was the result… the stilted walk and slightly
askew bun at the nape of her neck. Kate could count on, well, no fingers the number of times a piece of hair had dared escape the bun at the back of her mother’s neck and she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from it… that lone strand of dyed brown hair, silently protesting the death of the man Kate had loved more than life itself.
The man Kate had loved probably even more than her mother ever did.
She couldn’t remember one time that she’d seen her mother show him any affection; couldn’t remember ever seeing them even hold hands. Her father had always been so vibrant and alive and all over the place… the opposite of her neatly pressed and properly attired mother. Still, as a little girl, all Kate ever wanted was to be like her mother. She watched the way Samantha glided across the floor, all grace and sophistication. Kate used to pull her hair up and loop it into any rubber band she could find, just trying to mimic the cool calmness of her mother’s bun. Of course, Samantha would come by and tug it loose, pulling and fraying Kate’s hair and reminding her that “little girls don’t put real rubber bands in their hair.”
There were so many rules when she was growing up; so many things she could and couldn’t do as a proper little lady. Only Kate had never been the Kathryn her mother so desperately wanted her to be. She’d always just been Kate. Just plain old Kate. Just one of the guys, one of many faces in the crowd. Kate was never destined to stand out the way her mother did. Though, of course, she stood out in her own way. As if drawn by a magnet, her hand smoothed down the side of her shirt, thinking about the hidden tattoo that crisscrossed her body; her mother would die. She grinned a little, in spite of where she was and glanced over at her mother. Great. She was looking back.
Kate tried to meet her mother’s eyes for a moment, but Samantha was quick to look away. As if a curtain was
raised around her heart, Kate stood straighter, thrusting her shoulders back and gripping tighter to the hand tucked into hers. She was just fine without her mother anyway, she always had been.
“Too tight,” Tyler stage-whispered, yanking his hand from hers with flourish. She smiled apologetically down at him and let him slide his trusting hand back into hers. She knew her mother disapproved of him being there but hell, she’d disapproved of almost everything that had to do with Tyler from day one. When Kate had gotten pregnant she thought the news would kill her mother, but Samantha had seemed to rally. Then when Kate finally married Tyler’s father only to have that asshole run off on them, she was certain the divorce would kill her, if only for the social implications of having a divorced daughter. But Samantha was just “oh-so strong” and she powered through the way she did everything else… prim and proper and quite by the book. Before she knew what was happening, Kate had opened her apartment door to find both parents camped on the door step, Samantha with that fierceness of vision and her father with a sheepish grin.
They’d stayed for almost a month while she tidied up her life in the aftermath of divorce. They’d stayed well beyond their welcome, or Samantha had, and when they left though Kate was thrilled to see them go, a bond had
forged between her son and her mother that she’d never foreseen. For whatever reason, Tyler loved Samantha and she loved him back.
Kate rubbed her thumb across the smooth skin of her son and let herself relax for just a moment before
remembering the truth. Her daddy was gone and her “mother” was still here.
“Samantha,” she spat the name out in her mind. It made no sense.
Her Daddy was gone.
Posted on | September 9, 2015 | 3 Comments
There weren’t many ways to approach the task laid out before her, so she supposed she’d just get started.
Samantha stretched one long, manicured finger out across the space between where she stood and where he lie, and let it hover there just above his temple, just above that slight speck of gray that she used to playfully tug. She could leave it there, suspended in the air above him, or she could move forward.
Samantha was always someone who moved forward. She let her hand drop to her side, brushing against the rough seam in her skirt. It was second nature to smooth her hands down the front, second nature to stretch her shoulder blades back and raise her chin ever so slightly.
“Always keep your chin high,” her father had told her, “it’s slimming to the neck and makes folks think you know better than them.”
She angled her body away from Jackson, then, away from the unnatural stillness of his face and focused her attention on the people around her. There was Kathryn to her right, stoic and tall, with that curiously confused look she often wore. She was clutching the hand of Tyler, who shouldn’t even be there at his age, and the sheen of her bright, unnaturally colored hair seemed to bounce around the room. When had that new color happened, Samantha wondered to herself. Had it happened while she was watching or in the moments when she looked away, like her childhood had slipped away through the cracks and slits of blinking eyes. She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the sight of the un-ironed pants and half tucked shirt; tried as she always did to find something she identified with in this strange woman who tucked Samantha’s own blood in her veins. But she couldn’t. The only thing truly familiar about Kathryn was her son.
Tyler looked up and grinned his gap-toothed grin, acknowledging her eyes on him with a squint and scrunch
of his nose. She almost smiled back, then felt the searing pain of remembrance and she looked past him to the gaunt man beside him.
She wished he were beside her, giving her strength even through his pale, thin frame. He’d always been so gangling, even as a boy. Jackson always said he was more grasshopper than boy… long and lean and bounding
places with relentless energy. Now he was subdued, angular and stiff in his Sunday suit, and every so often she noticed the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard against the pain. Poor Max. If he just had a girl, if she could just magically create the right woman for him… maybe he could sweep away that sad, glazed over look he always seemed to wear.
Samantha almost moved backwards, for a moment, to be beside him. She almost moved past her daughter, ignoring the sadness in her eyes and the stain of tears on her cheek. She’d always just moved past her daughter, hadn’t she.
Jackson was the “good” parent to them. Especially to Kathryn. He was the one they wanted to attend the ball games and who they wanted to read the bedtime stories. Jackson was the one they called with their news and stories; he was who they shared their joy and pain with. Jackson was always the one they called. Her mind choked on the thought that now… now there was no one for them to call.
Without warning a sob broke past the façade and startled the whole room.
Posted on | August 27, 2015 | 3 Comments
I have always considered myself, well… liberal. I think all men and women are created equal … no matter what they look like, who they pray to, and who they love. It’s a big part of who I am and it’s a big part of how I identify myself. I get upset when people think or act differently than that because I don’t understand it. I just don’t understand hatred.
I get fired up about hatred.
I get fired up about racism.
I get fired up about the assassination of character that sometimes happens when someone speaks up about what they believe or how they feel. So much of the time, I don’t speak up about how I feel. I keep quiet because I’m so scared that what I feel will be somehow wrong. I get scared that what I feel will be twisted and turned into something ugly when it isn’t intended to be.
I believe that all of us are put here for the purpose of helping each other, learning from each other, teaching each other how to breathe in life and breathe out love. I always want to breathe out love. I want my words and actions and very being to radiate a love for everyone. Everyone.
And that’s why I feel so awful these days.
I feel awful and sad and uncomfortable because lately, I’ve been feeling very conflicted. I feel that, as a person who loves, I should be first in line to support and applaud the actions of Black Lives Matter. I feel that I’m supposed to support and applaud their interruption of Bernie Sanders and slam the negative response that followed. I feel that I’m supposed to believe that this was the right way to go about spreading a message. Because it’s a good message and the message is something I wholeheartedly support. And because I support the message, I feel like I’m supposed to support any and every way it is spread.
But I don’t.
Me, the “bleeding heart,” the “silly liberal woman.” Me. How can I not support that? How can I not agree with the articles that say it was needed and necessary. How can I not put myself in a position where I understand that it’s necessary and needed?
I can’t wrap my head around it.
I’ve read article after article supporting what happened at the Bernie Sanders Rally. I’ve read article after article about how great it was that these women took their cause to the stage, took their voices to the microphone, and let their message be heard. And I have to say, I agree that it’s good to take this cause to the stage. I agree that it’s good to take those voices to a microphone and to let the message be heard.
But I disagree with how it was done.
Because what happened that day took something special… something that was and is important… a movement that means Black Lives Matter… a movement that had my full and complete support… and made it into a Kanye West moment at the Grammy’s.
It made someone like me, someone who has always believed in equality of all people, question whether other people feel the same. Because yes, Black Lives Matter. Hell the effing yes they matter. And I will beat the tar out of anyone who says otherwise.
But you know what else matters?
Lots of things.
Things like respect and honor and dignity. Things like love and kindness and vulnerability. I was raised to believe that respect breeds respect, kindness begets kindness, and that even a whisper can be as loud as a roar if it is spoken into the right ear.
Black Lives Matter. They do.
And I want to shout from the rooftops that I support that… that I support every single mother loving inch of that. But recent events leave me unable to.
And the fact that I can’t open arm my support for a cause I believe in, makes me feel so much sadder than I’ve felt about anything in a very long time.
Posted on | August 21, 2015 | No Comments
Tomorrow, my son will be six years old.
Six is when I got a baby brother, when I began kindergarten… when I started to formulate memories that stay with me even now. And as I watch my own child roll into himself, roll into six years old, I can’t help but wonder if we have reached some sort of changing. Some form of a switch where I begin my soft lit fade into “used to be” and he begins his brightly focused march of “will be one day.”
I don’t feel old.
I don’t feel like I’m much different from the me that I was back when I drove a beat up Ford Tempo around the streets of Greensboro, North Carolina, blaring hip hop music intertwined with Dave Matthews Band and the Indigo Girls. I don’t feel so far removed from line dancing Shania Twain at spring break, or folding notes in little shapes and slipping them into lockers. I don’t, I’m not, I refuse to be… old.
And yet I am.
When I watch my son slip his backpack on and shrug out of my hugs and kisses, I am older.
When I push the sign up sheet for school fundraisers across the table of my office, I feel the lines of time softening my face.
When I look around at the collection of memories that are mine and his and all those who have gone before me, I know that somehow, in some inexplicable way, I have become older. I have become the one who came before, the one who used to be the girl sneaking cigarettes at the football game… the one who now sneaks only a second soda or glass of wine as her biggest vice. I have become so far removed from the girl who drove with the windows down, with one arm out weaving the wind through and around her fingers. Those moments, those far away moments, where I held the wind in my hand… felt like they would last forever. I thought I’d be that girl forever, taming and turning and becoming the wind around me.
I can look down at my hands now and see the markings of time; they are not as brightly polished as they once were. There are scars and creases and whispers… reminders of days when the wind was not so kind. Reminders of days when the wind didn’t bend to my will, but struggled back, bending and bruising and marking me with time and experience. The wind is not always something to hold… sometimes, most times, the wind is not something to hold.
It is to breathe in, to dance in, to stand in with your arms spread wide, drinking in the tickle of time as it blows and changes the shape, the substance of who you are.
I used to think I held the wind in my hands, that I was the master of my own time and my own destiny.
But no. The wind is not to hold.
The wind is to set free. To watch. To witness.
And now it is my son’s turn to cup his hands and dream. To feel the rush around his fingers and to believe, wholeheartedly, that one day… maybe…
He will hold the wind.
Posted on | August 10, 2015 | 2 Comments
Last week, my nerves were shot and I was stressed and uncomfortable with the decision I’d made to put J in public school. Last week, I was so worried that he wouldn’t be loved and supported and nurtured along with educated because the school was so big and there were so many students and how, oh how, would they possibly take the time to know MY kid…to love MY kid… for the person he is. Last week, I was scared and overwhelmed and wondering what in the hell was going on because why did I feel so disconnected and under-informed? Why was everything just happening around me and why couldn’t I get my mind wrapped around anything?
This morning, we drove across town for school drop off. I packed a book for J to read so he wouldn’t have to just sit and not talk for the fifteen or twenty minutes that he had to wait in the cafeteria. It was our compromise, our way of dealing with the drama of drop off in the mornings, and I was hopeful it would be a lasting solution. We got to school and I walked in with him because I had a question to ask and I’m so very glad I did.
His principal walked over, all smiles, and gave my son a hug. He lit up like a Christmas tree. It was so clear that he liked her and liked being acknowledged by her. She took the time to tell me, without having to use words, that my son was loved and nurtured at that school. She told me by bending down and looking him in the eye, calling him by name, remembering what class he’s in and who his friends are. She told me by being there, front and center, to answer nervous parent questions and to be the face of the school she so obviously loves.
I walked out of school this morning with an entirely different mind set. This IS the place for my son. This is where he will learn and thrive and yes, be loved and appreciated. This is where he will realize that life has lots of different sorts of people and he gets to choose the sort of person he will be. This is where he will become the person he will be for the rest of his life.
And I am so very very glad that Macon has a public school like this… one that doesn’t just teach the children but that LOVES the children. This week, I’m happy to call myself a Panda Parent… happy to tell people just how wonderful an environment my child and I have stumbled into. I think the first week is always hard… always a struggle to figure out where your child fits in the mix. The first week is just learning the rules… learning the ropes and when to pull and when to climb. Last week was a lot of pulling on my part, trying to fit the rope to my child. This week? This week will be about stepping back and watching my son climb.
What a difference a week can make.
Posted on | August 6, 2015 | 7 Comments
The past two mornings have ended in tears.
I should be more ashamed that the tears were mine, not J’s, but alas… I am not. Because I’m just full on overwhelmed by public school.
It’s not just the no talking or the newness. It’s not the uniforms and the drop off. It’s not even the pick up line. It’s just this feeling that I have no idea what is happening or why it is happening at any given point of the day. I’m not sure why someone decided teachers needed to cram so much into the school day that lunches were reduced to 20 minutes and recess became nearly obsolete. I’m not sure who decided our schools needed to be responsible not just for educating but also for moralizing, feeding, parenting and everything else. I’m just not sure who came up with this new structure that has stripped away any remnants of the public school system I was in waaaay back in the 80s and 90s and replaced it with this detailed prison-system day that gives our teachers little to no room for creativity or excitement… or fun.
School was always fun for me.
Thus far, J has come home every day a little sad.
Thus far, I have left him there a little sad.
On top of all the newness, I’m now consistently late to work because J is terrified of the cafeteria in the morning and begs to not have to go there. Which means I have to figure out a way to drop him off at 8:30 and arrive at work at 8:30. I’ve placed several calls to Emma Watson for advice, but she’s totally ignoring me.
I don’t know how to do this, guys. It’s so stressful and so overwhelming. And the sloppy edges of all this school-stressed-ness are oozing out in pools and leaving me emotionally bankrupt for all the rest that life has to offer. Is this our life now? This constant push/pull/struggle of putting on uniforms and tucking in shirts and prodding him out the door and into the world of school that is nothing like what I remember… that is nothing like what I hoped and wished for my child.
Don’t get me wrong… this isn’t a school issue. My son is blessed to be in what I consider the best school in our district. This is an actual system wide problem and I’m suddenly all too aware that there is absolutely no way we can adequately educate our children in this type of environment. The fact that children succeed coming out of public schools anywhere in this nation is a testament to the teachers they have and the probable overtime that the children, teachers, and parents do to make it work.
Because something is decidedly broken in the system when both the parent and the child begin and end their days in tears.
Posted on | August 5, 2015 | 5 Comments
Kindergarten may kill me. I’m not quite sure why they don’t do like a “Parent Survival Day” a week before… a trial run to get us all where we know what’s coming, even if it means that some parents realize they’re lions and the rest of us realize we’re just the lame gazelle the herd tossed back to distract.
We started on Monday and drop off was a breeze. In and out in under fifteen minutes and my kid seemed happy and adjusted. I was at work on time, everything was sunshine and roses and I texted a friend and was all “This is so easy. I am so awesome at all the things.” She warned me about pick up and I mocked her. She said she gets there at 2, over an hour early, just to wait around for her kids.
“Lame,” I thought to myself. “How bad can it really be.”
So I left my office at 2:45 and drove 15 minutes down the highway to the school exit, lauding my ability to rock out at all of this parenting stuff. I pulled up to the stop light three blocks down from the school and realized… I was apparently already in the line for pick up. Three blocks back and it was already winding a maze of sadness down through a neighborhood. Parents were glassy eyed and twitchy, watching carefully for the side swiping vulture cars who think that the line is just a suggestion, or perhaps a convenient opportunity to show that they are above the rules. It took me about three minutes to go from totally relaxed and ready to see my child, to stressed out, gripping the wheel and following so close to the truck in front of me that I was basically cleaning their grill for the first football tailgate. NO ONE WOULD GET IN MY WAY TO SEE MY CHILD! NO ONE!
I left work at 2:45 for 3:15 school dismissal. My child didn’t get into my car until 3:50. The majority of that time, I could actually see him but was not sure if it was okay to get out of my car and get him or if I had to wait my turn. Other parents got out and got their kids. I never could quite figure out if that was frowned upon. When we finally got home, I wasn’t sure who was more traumatized so we basically just drank for dinner. Both of us. (Okay no, not really).
But because it’s what we do, we got up and did it all again the next day. Only this time, I dropped him off for breakfast, thinking it would give me extra time at the office. Little did I know what that entailed. On day three, when he refused to get out of the car because he hated breakfast time, I walked in with him.
I’m fairly certain prisoners have a better time during meals.
Someone, somewhere, decided that allowing children to talk during meals leads to choking hazards or maybe not eating or maybe it just annoys people. So there are no-talking nazis everywhere telling children at 7:45 in the morning that there is to be absolutely no talking at any time. They herd them into a room where they are seated “criss cross applesauce” in a single file line… silently… until the
warden guard teacher announces their line can go get breakfast. Once they get their tray, they are ushered to a table where they sit next to anyone from K-5 in straight up silence to eat food. Well.. not exactly silence because while they eat, they are subjected to yelling like ‘YOUNG MAN ON THE CORNER? SIT DOWN. YOUNG LADY IN BLUE? NO TALKING.” I’m not actually sure what happened after that because I was suddenly too concerned I might drop something in the hallway and have to bend over to get it.
Ultimately, we ended up in the library, in the peaceful quiet of some good books and the tension in my kid’s shoulders dropped away. I was able to walk him down to his classroom and leave him in the hands of his awesome teacher without any further issues. It seems like there should be a better way for kids to start their day… some option like reading books in the library, or playing on the playground… something they can sign up to do other than be yelled at by Nurse Ratchet as they shovel poptarts and sugary cereal into their mouths. But what do I know… I’m just trying to not get eaten by one of the more ferocious foes around me and just make it through week one peacefully.
Until, you know, survival of the fittest at 3:15.
Posted on | August 3, 2015 | No Comments
If you ask my mother, she can tell you only one true thing about my first day of Kindergarten. She vividly remembers walking down the hallway to my classroom with my hand in hers and with each step, my grip on her hand grew tighter. I didn’t speak, I just squeezed tighter. I’ve always been one to hold on… maybe too hard, maybe too long. I just never have quite mastered the skill of letting things go.
This morning, I fastened a little brown belt around a little boy waist and snapped a picture with him by the front door. I watched him fasten his seat belt in the back of the car, and listened as he told me he was just a little nervous about his first day. From the driver’s seat, I could see his reflection in the mirror: tall, strong, a little boy in a blue and red school uniform. I blinked away a tear and for a moment I could see him there, just a little boy in a blue and white coming home onesie, tightly strapped backwards into the backseat of the same car. I blinked again and the image was gone.
One more blink and we were there, unfastening seat belts and climbing out onto the hard pavement of his new school, feet stepping carefully with his hand pressed into mine as the door loomed ahead. Somewhere along the walk, the grip between us grew tighter, fingers pressing snug against palm and I believe it was me holding too tight.
The classroom was bright and quiet, and he took his place at the table beside his name.
“Do you want me to stay or go?” I asked, silently needing to be needed. Maybe he knew that or maybe he needed me, too.
“I’m not sure,” he said, looking up at me with those same bright eyes that peered up at me from a long ago bassinet in a not so long ago hospital room.
“Then I’ll stay for a bit,” I smiled, hoping my smile would shut in the tears that threatened to fall.
I watched from a distance as he settled in, coloring on the sheet in front of him, possibly oblivious to whether I was still there. It took me a moment to realize I was clutching the arm of his backpack, willing it to connect me to him even as I stood only paces away. His teacher took it from my hand with a smile.
“I’m going to go, bud,” I smiled again and he looked up with a grin and motioned me closer. I stepped in to his hug, feeling the press of his lips on my cheek and the strength of his arms around my back. I couldn’t bring myself to let go, squeezing just a bit tighter before he pulled away.
“Bye mom!” He waved, giving me permission to step away, to step out and allow him to be who he is, a kindergartener in a new school.
I stepped from his room, my hands squeezing into fists as though I could hold in the last scraps of baby… as though my fingers would wrap around the gurgle of his infancy, the breaths of his toddlerhood, the giggles of his pre-school days. As though the force of my wanting could capture it all there in my hands.
I turned the corner away and looked down at my fists, tight and saddened by my side. With a careful sigh, I reached up to wipe away a tear, letting the last few wisps of my baby curl out around my unclenched fists.
Posted on | July 23, 2015 | 7 Comments
Sometimes, when you least expect it, life throws you one of those sweet spot fast balls that streaks down the middle of the plate and you just know, without a doubt, that when you make contact you are on your way to a one way trip around the bases. Your eyes light up with sheer joy, your shoulders tense and then relax because you just know… somehow you just know… that there’s no way you can mess this up. Time slows down. There’s only you and the ball, and you can taste the perfection there on your lips. There’s a crack so loud that you believe every bat in the world split on contact and the ball, that perfect sphere of wonder, will arc in such a way that no one can mistake where it’s headed.
Out of the park.
Over the fence.
Perfectly connected, ball to bat, and you know that no matter how many times you step up to the plate you’re never going to see anything so beautiful ever again.
This summer, I stepped up to the plate in a big way. I stuffed and folded and laminated all the important documents and clothes and necessities and I reached one hand down to grasp J’s and the other over to grasp Banks’ and we headed into the sky on a plane bound for Europe.
First time out of the country.
And to say that it was a perfect trip would be, well… lying. I mean, we were on a plane for 8 hours with a five year old. And we were on a train for 6 hours with a five year old. And did I mention we walked mile after mile only to end up at another museum or church… with a five year old? So no, it wasn’t perfect. And I could (and perhaps will) write you all kinds of little snippets of the trip that will have you wondering if my last name is actually Griswold. But, like in any segment of life, there were moments of absolute perfection.
Like the moment I stood with my son and boyfriend at the foot of the Eiffel Tower.
Like the moment I stepped out of the stairwell into the chapel at Saint Chapelle.
Like the moment I turned around to drink in the beauty of Montserrat Monastery and found myself looking down into the eyes of the man I love as he stretched out a small black box and told me he loved me. No. Told me he loved us.
It was the perfect pitch.
It was the moment I thought I’d never have, on those long nights when I cried myself to sleep, knee deep in divorce and baby and new job. It was the moment I thought would never come as I toiled through the every day, the moment I gave up on when I slid off my first wedding band and put away my wedding albums.
It was the perfect pitch.
And though I know we’re going to have moments when I’ll want to kill him, moments when he’ll want to strangle me… moments when we both wonder what in the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into… in that one perfect moment, at the top of Montserrat, time slowed. The air swirled up in amazement at just how far I’d come since that long ago day when I stretched yellow sheets onto a forgotten marital bed. The dust of the ground settled beneath my feet… level, even mountain top, and I knew there was no way I could mess this up. There was no way this could be messed up.
So I said “Yes.”
And watched as it sailed up and over and out and around in all the right ways before settling back where it should be. Here. With us.
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