Sitting in the children’s section at the Centerville library, I watch Evelyn watch two sisters play. They’re making food—cutting a pancake, a chicken drumstick, and an over-easy egg. Evelyn’s brow furrows as she watches the younger one step away to rummage through a nearby bin for more plastic food.
As she passes Evelyn, who remains standing nearby like a quiet observer, the girl says, “You want to be my friend.” Evelyn pauses—thoughtful, maybe cautious. But the girl doesn’t like the delay. She raises her voice: “I said, do you want to be my friend?”
Sure.
And just like that, cake is served on plates. The sound of chopping with a drumstick reverberates through the quiet room—except it’s not meant to be quiet. Not here. Kids’ voices and toy play are welcome, encouraged even.
Evelyn’s impressed. I can tell. One of the girls is on the ground now, a mask pulled over her face, arms stretched overhead. She’s swimming at the imaginary splash pad—even though her sister says it’s closed. She shrugs. Doesn’t care. She’s in the water anyway.
I really should be working. And I did—three notes, hunched over the tiny table with a tense body while the grandmother of the two girls barked orders and corrections in a tone that made me want to give her a good old-fashioned knuckle sandwich.
Before you is a different woman. No longer the one who’s easily intimidated, iced over, rendered speechless by someone’s harsh tone. Nay. I’m poised for action. I act when needed, reinforcing the line of what goes and what doesn’t in my presence—and in my daughter’s. Thankfully, today I got to stay in my little chair at the little table, because that line didn’t get crossed.
What else? It’s calm around home. School is back in session, two properties down. The elementary and primary school buses rolled through our street for the first time in months. The quiet lull of our little passthrough road is gone now—at least during early mornings and mid-afternoons. Oh well. I’ll rock in my chair and wave to the bus drivers, one of whom I met at a roller skating birthday party this past spring.
Dang. Evelyn fell asleep before I could say one last goodnight. Sure, I’d already said a couple, but this last one was going to be the best one. I gave her soft cheek a smooshy kiss anyway, covered her shoulder with her light blue muslin blanket, and closed the bedroom door.
So—that’ll do, pig. That’ll do. (Babe, the movie reference.)
Alright, that’s all she wrote for tonight. I’ll see you back this way tomorrow.
Love ya,
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 