Like Christmas, only mushier
The boy sits. Quiet. Thoughtful. Pen poised in mid air. He is so intent on his purpose that he doesn't even notice me standing just beyond the kitchen door, silently studying him. He hasn't even taken off his coat, so eager was he coming in from the store to catch the thoughts he has stored up in himself all week as he bugged me to death to go Christmas card shopping.
His eyes and red hair flashed in the light of the single bulb fixture above him. Fuzzy shadows stretch across the rest of the darkened kitchen. On the table in front of him, the newly purchased card. Beside it, the oversized chocolate bar. So young and already he knows the way to a woman's heart. Monroe had it so wrong, but Hershey knew.
Finally he puts pen to paper. I silently slide in to look over his shoulder to sneak a peek at what may slip through the heart deep below the still waters of red faced grins, the only reaction we have ever gotten when the subject of the little blond girl comes up. What will he say?
In middle school penmanship it reads, "Merry Christmas. Sorry so early."
Ok. So not exactly Shakespeare. Yet. Perhaps someday I may play a father version of Cirano for him.
In the meantime, he sneaks the present into her back-pack unnoticed the next day. When finally discovered, he reports that it elicited the proper squeaks of joy that he had hoped it would.
Mission accomplished.
His eyes and red hair flashed in the light of the single bulb fixture above him. Fuzzy shadows stretch across the rest of the darkened kitchen. On the table in front of him, the newly purchased card. Beside it, the oversized chocolate bar. So young and already he knows the way to a woman's heart. Monroe had it so wrong, but Hershey knew.
Finally he puts pen to paper. I silently slide in to look over his shoulder to sneak a peek at what may slip through the heart deep below the still waters of red faced grins, the only reaction we have ever gotten when the subject of the little blond girl comes up. What will he say?
In middle school penmanship it reads, "Merry Christmas. Sorry so early."
Ok. So not exactly Shakespeare. Yet. Perhaps someday I may play a father version of Cirano for him.
In the meantime, he sneaks the present into her back-pack unnoticed the next day. When finally discovered, he reports that it elicited the proper squeaks of joy that he had hoped it would.
Mission accomplished.
posted by Will at 7:17 PM
3 Comments:
:) He's brave! In my day (she says from her rocking chair) even middle school age meant that if a boy liked you. he was likely to slug you on the arm as a show of affection. ;)
I FEEL SO BLESSED TO HAVE SUCH A TALENTED, SENSITIVE, LOVING COUSIN. WHEN I READ YOUR BLOGS, I AM TRANSFERRED TO WHERE YOU ARE, CAN SEE IT ALL IN MY MINDS EYE. SUCH RARE TALENT!!! I LOVE YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY AND AM PROUD TO CALL YOU COUSIN.
LEAH
You may write in prose Will, but you are a poet. Yummy, yum, yum.
D
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