Ch. 199; Vol. 10
Two boxes of Pop-Tarts sat unopened on the counter – an idea of The Bear.
I don’t think I’ve ever actually bought Pop-Tarts before. And if memory served, Puck had never been witness to this American atrocity…
Breakfast, little man.
Two tarts in the toaster.
“This is a whole new world, my friend.”
“What?… I had these before… but they weren’t cooked like that.”
Cooked.
Not even that.
Hot already.
Not exactly 90, but pushing it, and we took a walk in it, because we should…
“Let’s keep going, man. It’s getting hot.”
“Could I just walk into the shade? The sun is hot on my neck, Mom.”
“Sure…”
“I just have to power up with shade. Don’t you?”
Of course.
In 70 degrees, Puck watched from the living room window – tree chipper shredder – a thing to fascinate any boy.
And mom.
Laundry.
“I will fold all of it, Mom.”
That’s my son.
Good news in the afternoon – a phone call with the adoption agency – our consultant would stay on for our further home studies and post-placements via contract. Another few years of contact.
We had a few dance parties in the afternoon, Puck and I. 95 degrees too hot to walk.
Rose sent a photo of the beach – orange cones on pale sand – the umbrellas of California summer.
Francis called up about math.
Ordered some fresh tires for the car – balding – shipped within the hour.
I prepared the rice for dinner…
“Mom? Could I have some of those anchobies?”
“Anchobies?”
He pointed them out – The Bear’s crunchy Cheetos on the counter – rolled up.
The Bear called after dinner…
“Um… Dad? Could you talk to Mom now? I can’t hear you very well. You’re chipping up.”
Sometimes evenings are smooth – Puck doesn’t find one more excuse to peel off the Angry Birds covers and hit the bathroom for the third time. Or when the dialogue doesn’t dissipate for about thirty-two minutes, off and on, like a talk show…
“IF ANYONE LIKES BACON, RAISE THEIR HAND!”
Tonight – prayers:
“Dear Jesus, please take care of Dad and please… take care of Onion in… what country, Mom?”
“California.”
“California. Amen.”
