Bang trims, watercolors, mango slices.
Musical recitals in the sunroom, his stage. He wants to learn taekwondo, needs to learn piano first, asks me to play ‘Road Race Rally’ on repeat.
For a bit, I say, sliding the door shut.
He remembers candy and legos from last winter, and our tradition begins. Yesterday, we signed him up at Master Kim's.
Already? Martin says.
Already.
—
We have had two dinner parties in two weeks. The first, pizza with our favorite kids – leisurely, loud, lovely – the second, more quiet with foam in the beer. The child seated at the piano performs well: just the one song, thanks.
At our first family dinner, we talk about the future and other people. The second, we talk about now and ourselves. Many of my doubts, much of his sureties.
But you’ve always said…
I know…
At home, we laugh in the kitchen, a jealous dog left at Max's.
A gift from Divy: five sheets of paper stapled together, presented to his father. It’s a book, he says.
—
The boys want a ball or two, or many. When they are done playing softball outside they're thirsty, he makes the sound of a caveman; a grunt, or a mouthwash gurgle. He has been doing better with his group time, already in the dorm phase.
How is Morgen doing? someone asks me last week.
But he already is on his own.
A gift from my mother: a Ziploc bursting with puzzles. For Divy, she says.
—
A quote in my journal: “I love you forever’ really means ‘Just trust me for now,’ which is all it ever means, and we just hope to keep renewing the “now,” year after year.” -Adam Gopnik
