Out in the Air
Thursday, February 23, 2012
“Mama!”
– An alarmed young man stormed into the room. –
“Where’s my donkey card?!”
It didn’t long to locate the thank you note Rose had sent him in the mail, including a sketched donkey. His new favorite item.
He was also eager to assist that morning while setting the table for breakfast…
“Mama. I can help you wash the dishes today. May I?”
OLeif had pulled out the bike again after a short winter. Temps were headed for 64 with gusts of wind up to 25 mph, and it had rained in the night. Once again, due to vivid deep dreams, this time about elaborate Victorian houses planted on precarious cliffs above the sea, beneath which lived caves seamed with ribs of horizontal stalactites who’s colors determined their birthdays: bumpy white – winter, transparent glassy white with black threads – autumn, pale yellow – spring, cobalt blue and soft – summer, Collette had slept right through the rain.
As Puck began writing his letters of the day, Collette instructed him that they were too small.
“But, Mama, I want to make little versions.”
The mail brought a pair of jeans from Hong Kong for Collette. Apparently the Chinese didn’t need buttonholes for their buttons. And were allowed to label commercial merchandise as “gifts” and “gadgets” on their customs declarations.
Collette and Puck walked the wooded trails of the park for an hour together. Around the shorter ponds first, crunchy scrabble grass underfoot. Halfway through, Puck found a hefty tree branch which he trailed behind him, making a scratching rhythm against the pavement…
“Doesn’t this make good music?” he asked.
After an extended distance of hauling, he heaved the branch into the woods, saying, “I need to settle my legs down now.”
Dips of hay, wind, sun, hills, and woods. The first chill of the evening arrived sometime close after four when Puck returned to the playground to accompany the shoals of kids arriving from school. Somewhere in the distance Collette thought she made out the shadow of a helicopter on a landing pad beside a large, white house. 26-minute game of Tag for Puck while Collette rubbed at the crick in her neck. A wide panel of sunbeams above the forested valley. Somewhere in the mix a young Indian girl of about ten, shouted to her friends…
“Guys! A park ranger’s here! Act like you’re trying to help me, ’cause I passed out!”
– False swoon. –
“Check my pulse.”
Puck meandered back to Collette under the pavilion.
“There are too many girls, Mama…” he mumbled.
Five o’clock: tomato soup; quesadillas. Catechism. Tornado books.
And high wind advisories with gusts up to 45 mph until the following morning. Maybe letting OLeif take his bike to work wasn’t the best idea…