Gina & Willie are hibernating. Cora is asleep on the couch. Bea is watching the Backyardigans on her tablet. She’s covered in paint and mud, and she’s holding a carpentry level. These things happen.
Tomorrow is Bea’s second birthday. I recall reading the ancient Romans didn’t consider babies people until they reached age two, then they had a huge celebration of their survival. I may have dreamed this. I have no citation but it doesn’t matter. Someone once told me life is too short not to believe in the Loch Ness Monster. I Want to Believe.
Bea has always been a person to me, long before she was born. This is not supposed to be a controversial statement. Willie is real to me as well and he’s still parasitic. Well, more parasitic than most.
I’ve always needed people so I guess I made my own. Isn’t this what we do? Regardless of the best laid plans of everything living, they all had parents. Or a parent. Or ancestors. You know what I mean. You may stop whenever you like but the history of the entire universe resulted in you. My my, butterfly.
And there it is. What better day to celebrate my youngest daughter’s birthday than Father’s Day? Lawnmowers and weed eaters buzz outside. I handed a $25 dollar check to my lawn man an hour ago. As my father once told me, the American Dream of home ownership comes with the burden of lawn maintenance. However, I’d not deprive some budding entrepreneur income when we could both benefit from an arrangement. Sweet symbiosis.
In a few days, we’ll have another cake for Cora’s fourth birthday, after which, she has informed me, she will be sixteen.
It will probably seem that way.
Here in this sweltering swath of America, it seems like peace could be a reality. “Hold me, hold me,” Bea says. I’d better do that, while I can.