Witness to a Public Execution

13:38 CEST 15-08

With the sun just past its apical slot in the sky, they opened fire on Carlos Molina. A line of twenty-two shots fired—twelve of which struck Molina’s body. Three shots were fatal, but the one that killed him before his fresh corpse struck the earth entered his left eye, disintegrating the zonular fibers and ciliary muscles, lacerating the vitreous humour in two, passing through the frontal lobe up into the parietal lobe, exiting out the back of his skull. The bullet—a 3-inch long 7.62 NATO—was fired from Private Pepe Villa’s ten-year-old .308 Mauser bolt action rifle. Of course, Pepe would never know for certain his bullet was the one that murdered Molina, but like the other twenty-one members of the death squad, he always knew he issued the fatal shot.

07:27 CEST 15-08

I awake to the morning or perhaps the early afternoon but judging by the mild yet comfortable temperature and lack of noise from the open window it is most likely morning or may be I closed the window in the middle of the night because of the storm that was to come or may be fearing a chill from the night air I closed it to protect the baby from falling ill but the baby did not wake last night she did not stir from slumber or perhaps I did not wake no I would have woken but may be I did not because I am a terrible mother unlike my mother no I am a good mother like my mother who sleeps below in the tiny spare room because I am a terrible host and daughter to my mother and guest because one day my daughter will be terrible to me no may be my daughter who reminds me of my mother will be like my mother and I like me and I will just be terrible to both because I am a terrible person no not these thoughts not this early it is a beautiful day or early afternoon but most likely morning. How unfair that it is so.

And I rise from my bed that my mother put me in last night during the storm after the news no it was after the news but before the storm that did not come or it did but just late very very late and I was not aware of it or I was but I just ignored it or forgot it or remembered it but wished I did not but I rise in the lovely night gown that my lovely husband bought for me not more than a month ago or may be a little less than a month ago or last year no a month and some days ago and it is beautiful and yellow that is my favorite color and he knows or he does not and was just fortunate to guess so but I do not believe in fortune no more so he must have known and it has white lace on the outside and he would make me wear it every night for a week or more or less after he bought it for me and he would say Evita, Evita come to bed with me I must sleep tonight with you and I told him You have done so for the past two three years slept with me and been with me and I with you and he would call me enchant me beg me implore me demand me to come to him and I be his submissive master and he my subjugator slave and he would make love to me or may be just be carnal and sex no it was love and it was beautiful or it was hot and uncomfortable and too short-lived no no no no it was and it was not. Very soon it will be neither.

So I collect myself and come down to breakfast or lunch or brunch depending on what time it is but it looks like breakfast because my mother has prepared little food but it smells so wonderful which I feel uneasy about and wish it was not so but it is and it does but I do not feel the urge to eat even though I am quite hungry because I did not eat much yesterday well a little bit of cherries and some chocolate from the pantry but not according to Madre who declares I have not ate much since he left but this is false to believe for it suggests volunteerism but it was coercion there were cries fists flew a broken lamp a torn night gown that was purchased in the city and broken tooth and stomped foot but no cry from the baby not until everything became quiet again and Madre and I stopped our weeping as if the chaos brought the babe some comfort but no this cannot be so the baby must have been crying but we had not realized it until we stopped our weeping because we are terrible mother and grandmother no that is not true we are good so the baby must have been asleep must be so peaceful being a babe and it is just look at her smile she is so happy so gay so oblivious so dumb Evita Madre says you need to eat here she supplies a wonderful looking and smelling breakfast containing coffee and two slices of buttered toast but I do not have the energy to eat or drink but I do so I drink some coffee and as usual Madre has prepared the most delicious coffee and it warms my body starting from my stomach at the center of my soul and spreads outward and then Madre says Evita you must get out of those clothes and put something new on you must get outside you must not stay here another day take the baby and go outside go for a stroll get washed cleanse yourself and I ask Madre What time is it? and she informs me Mid-morning and I say under my breath He will die soon. And I wish this morning were not going so well.

20:11 CEST 14-08

— I cannot.

— We must.

— But this is…

— Our duty.

— I do not even know this man.

— None of us do.

— But I have not…

— There is no more to discuss.

— It happened fairly.

— You were there. As were we all. The names were selected. That was that.

— Easy for you to say.

— This is how it is.

— But I cannot.

— You do not have a choice.

— I think that is my point.

— Who cares? The selection was fair. It was random. The names were selected blindly. You were there. You saw.

— Yes… but still…

— No still. Just sleep. I think I hear the storm in the distance.

— I can certainly feel it.

— I wish it would just come already.

— I cannot.

— Would you stop? Why won’t he stop?

— He is afraid.

— Ha!

— Maybe if you were so brave, you would switch with him.

— My name was not selected.

— How fortunate for you.

— I have no regrets.

— That is because you have nothing to regret for.

— It was selected fairly. We all saw so.

— I am not sure that matters.

— Of course it does. That is the only thing that matters now.

— Perhaps. Perhaps not.

— No. He should stop his whining. Be prepared. Accept it. He’s not the one on the other end of the gun. Why should he be so scared?

— The same reason you are not brave enough to switch with him… or me… or any of us chosen.

— This was how it was.

— True.

— So let that stand then.

— I do not think you believe such things.

— I cannot.

— Stop.

— You stop.

— I cannot.

— Stop.

— You stop.

10:13 CEST 15-08

Upon Madre’s suggestion entreatment I take the babe out for a stroll through the town to the nearby park and all eyes are on my or may be they are ignoring me but my eyes are on them but it does appear that at least a few eyes are on me as if they too now have heard the news and know what I know and we all have this uncanny rapport functioning against our wills to suppress because I do not wish to be inside their minds no more than they wish to be in mine or vice versa or vice versa or may be this is all fabrication and I am once again imagining that which is not and no one knows who I am or of the news but some must be aware of the news the whole town our country must be at least on some level aware of what will happen or may be not may be they do not care or are not made aware or do not care enough to be made aware either way this is really a beautiful day. This injustice continues.

As I reach the park and locate some shade beneath a tree on a bench next to a fountain near the center of the park I allow myself against better judgment against the will to do so to look around some and observe this lovely awful day and as I suspected or more than likely feared the sky is still its beautiful blue and the sparse clouds are their most purest white and greatest structural fluff and the gleam of the sun on the leaves of nearby trees makes me want to cry and the blend of greens in this park makes me want to cry no I do not want to cry I do but I do not not because of the greens or the blues or the clearness of the fountain water or the pleasing architectural shapes of the fountain or the fact that it is running perfectly or that the only fragrance in the air sans my perfume is the redolent flowers at full bloom today and the only sound save my breathing or the transient shouts of joy from my child his child our child is the buzzing of the bees searching for the remaining pollen from said aromatic flowers or not-too-distant playful calls of children slightly older than my own his own our own and their dogs and all of these shapes and colors and smells and noises overwhelm me shock me make me wish to be dumb or blind or deaf or dead or never existed at all but no I must exist I am so here and now but I wish I were not and my baby his baby our baby is so pleased and I am shocked by all of this and I hate all of this because I love all of this and my baby his baby our baby continues to smile and look around and be allured by her surroundings and I cannot take this so I pinch her I do not but I do and I do because I must but I must not but I just did and I do on her cheek because she is so happy and it is unfair it is not but it is and I am a terrible mother but I am not I am selfish but also giving because she must understand but she does not because she does not cry there are no tears she produces nothing just a minor look at me expressionless innocuous void but full of meaning and I hate her but I love her. And so I sit a little longer.

19:45 CEST 14-08

Stacked five across and two deep, members of the tribunal sit and observe Carlos Molina. Their faces are wet with perspiration from the humidity of the coming storm—which does not come until hours after their verdict. The propelling fans do little to cool the faux-courtroom, merely shifting hot air around. The place is thick with swirling wet air and foul breath. Before we read you your verdict. Do you wish to proclaim any further information? Will it go in the public record? Of course. This was not a complete lie. Though all parties desperately wanted to believe in the judicial façade they created, its innate cursory nature did not allow them so. Carlos Molina sat and thought. Specs of dried blood remained on his clothes and small portions of his face. Three-day stubble shaded the majority of his face. No. No? No. So then you are content? I have said what I have said. I have done what I have done. Let it be. Silence. The revolving blades from above made the only sound. Carlos Molina swallowed sparse saliva down his parched throat. The Ten sat and waited for more. Nothing. Just fans. And hot air. So be it. The single parchment[1] was lifted. Reading glasses were placed on the bridge of the reader’s aquiline nose. Carlos Molina. Please stand. He stood. You have been tried by a committee of ten judges. The decision has been reached. The decision was reached well before Carlos ever was caught. In fact, most of the time in deliberation was spent on debating over the rhetoric of said decision. It is unanimous. Indeed. All ten members agreed unanimously that “unanimous” should be used in the rhetoric for its “authorial quality.” We committee of ten find you guilty of all the charges. The punishment is death by fusillading. The other word they all agreed must be included in the rhetoric. Which will be concluded tomorrow afternoon. What time? Hmm? What time? The Ten exchanged glances. As the sun begins to set. Late afternoon then? No. Is this not when the sun begins to set? Not entirely. Puzzlement. As the sun begins to set after, but just as it passes the highest point in the sky. Yes. How many? How many? How many in the line? Twenty-two. Twenty-two? It is a sufficient number. Yes. Carlos Molina was then escorted back to his holding cell, which was actually just a corner where he sat—in the next room over.

13:10 CEST 15-08

So I return to the house of mirth but more appropriately dearth but more appropriately dirge where he once carried me into for the first time well there was some walking then a carriage and then a little more walking but then he picked me up and carried me in well I held onto his shoulders and took on some of my own weight because I was already fat with baby much to the sadness of Madre but there was great joy and love when the baby came or may be there was great pain and suffering and tears and sweat and blood and cries and anger and anxiety and hate and then after some time had passed great joy and love but I enter and Madre greets me but from the other room and her welcome is faint and more of a question than welcome though it is still a greeting and I answer Yes it is me and she asks how the stroll was and I inform her Lovely and then to myself and the baby Terrifying and then to the ceiling Why? and just as I begin to smell it my mother informs me that an earlier lunch is ready and so I run no I walk with the baby no the baby is in my arms I carry the baby and walk over casually no more so lugubriously but I hide it well no I do not because Madre makes a face and I know she knows what I know and we know but the baby does not know or may be she does but most likely no she does not and that is why I envy her but I do not because I would not because I am not so there and I hate the food that my mother has prepared and drink some refreshing sparkling water that makes me feel good and it depresses me more and her lunch is just as good as her coffee and I hate my mother for being so damn good at it and I hate that the water is so cold and crisp and I hate my tongue and mouth for enjoying the carbonation and I hate my body for devouring the bread dipping it in the olive oil and sucking down the soup rich with tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers and onions and for cleaning the plate of the excellently cooked chicken how it is so moist and rich with the flavor of her cooking as with the potatoes and mushrooms and onions and carrots and the coffee again for desert and I hate my mother a little more for making the coffee plentiful with taste and yet not overbearing and crème fresh and the sugar just so and I hate her but no I do not cannot will not or may be I do but I do not but I am so full physically and emotionally and I grow weak now because my body is finally fed and in my weakness I speak Why Madre? Why does everything have to be so wonderful today? Why does the storm not come why did I get such great sleep why did the babe not cry why was the morning so lovely and the people so happy and world look its best today and your food taste especially grand today? Why? my mother sits and looks at me for a while or may be awhile no it is a short time no a long one and then my mother speaks to my baby his baby our baby no to me When I was a little girl there once was a feral cat that came into our town no one knew where it came from it just appeared one day and it walked right down our main street into the plaza and laid down in the center no one paid it much attention for the first few days it was there and it would spend most of the time in the plaza lazing away and then get up towards dusk and disappear and as I said this happened for a few days until some of my friends and I started to play with the cat we acquired some yarn and then we used a small doll my sister your aunt Clarita no longer wanted and it would play with us and we enjoyed playing with it always in the plaza it would always be in the plaza and never leave until night and return sometime in the morning and some times it would grow bored with us and lay down and some times it would follow us like when we went to school or Mass and some times not and we children loved it and our parents grew found of it and soon the whole town did people would leave milk or meat scraps out for it place it in front of the cat in the plaza and we all enjoyed the cat very much Madre then pauses for a moment to wipe the baby’s face clean then she continues But one day we all came out in the morning and the cat was gone several days passed and the cat still stayed missing and some said the jealous widow who lived wanted everyone’s sympathy killed the cat others said it was the butcher’s mean dog or the butcher himself a few believed it was just a very old cat and wandered off into the nearby woods to die but most joked that it left for the big city to become a famous cat Madre laughs no more so giggles no more so smiles to herself in thought and then continues Whatever the reason the cat was gone and life returned to the it was without the cat and a few months later I remember bringing up the cat in conversation at lunch with my mother and father and sisters and brother but my father did not seem to remember the cat Cat what cat? he said and Mother remembered a cat but did not remember all that I remembered and this was true for mostly all the townspeople no one seemed to remember the cat it just faded in and out of our town and lives and memories and even now I do not remember all the things I did with the cat all I remember now is that there was a cat and we were all fond of it Madre looks at me with a smile and I do not know what my face looks like because it is a fine story but I do not understand what she means no I do I know but I do not like her for saying so no I do I love her but it is with great sadness—abrupt noises—I turn my attention to the other room Madre looks at me and I at her. Carlos’s transmitter noises then stops then noises again then silences on off on off rests cries sleeps wakes I must answer it I cannot but I will I will not I am—Hello.

---

1 The rhetoric was written on the back of an advertisement for a film about a guitar vagabond who wandered from one town to the next on his way to the city to become famous. Everywhere he went he played his music. People loved him. Then the night he arrives in the city a beggar asks for a pittance. The vagabond says he does not have any money and begins to walk away. The beggar stabs the guitar vagabond in the back and smashes the guitar. The vagabond dies. The film is called: Absurdo.

Two Women

“So how did it go last night? I never got around to asking you earlier.”

Washing dishes. “I… it went OK. I guess.”

“OK?”

“No,” she laughs. Turning off faucet. “It went awful. Or maybe bad. Maybe some things were good.” Thinks about the events. “No. Pretty bad.” Moves to the living room. Sits down on the couch.

Follows. “Oh. I’m sorry. God what happened? Did he just act like an ass?”

“No, well… god I don’t know, it’s just really… bad… the whole night was just really… bad. I mean… first of all it wasn’t all him, but yeah he wasn’t helping things.”

“Jesus this sounds awful.”

“It was, “ nodding her head. “It was pretty awful.”

“So… what happened? Or would you rather talk about something else?”

“No. I should talk about this. It’s just that you know him and I don’t want you to think differently about him. He’s not a bad guy. I like him. I really do. I was kind of hoping he’d turn out to be a halfway decent guy, you know, to be with.”

“Right.”

“And not that he’s not. It’s just,” sighs. Drinks. “I… OK. First off, like I said, it wasn’t all his fault. I’ve got the deadline at work, and then all that bullshit with the car accident and the medical bills I have to pay and going to court because that asshole won’t just pay… and I have all this stress building up inside… and I think I have to go to the doctor’s because this stress is screwing up my cycle and I’m off by a few days, which was one of the reasons I didn’t even want to go on this date with him, and I had a headache, and nausea, and I just felt like shit…”

“God. I’m so sorry. So this wasn’t a good start.”

“No. Not at all. But I couldn’t call it off. I didn’t want to come off like I didn’t want to see him. Like I wanted to see him. You know.”

“Yeah.”

“I was ready to take him home, willingly.”

“Right.”

“We talked about this.”

“Yes. You’ve mentioned.”

“So I couldn’t call it off. And I had all this other shit I had to deal with. And… but so I got it together about an hour or so before we were supposed to meet up—well like two hours. I showered, tried on about three different outfits. I fucking stressed over whether or not to where shoes, or those heels I showed you the other day—”

“The cute ones.”

“Right.”

“Yeah I like those.”

“And anyway, I finally pulled myself together and met him over there. And things were going fine for a little while. You know. I told him I wasn’t feeling well, but that I wanted to see him. And he was nice and funny like usual. But then, like, we stayed a little longer, and he started ordering more drinks, and he had like a salad, or hadn’t eaten all day he said, I don’t remember the specifics… or both… and then we leave the restaurant and I want to call it a night because I’m feeling like shit again because I was having these awful fucking cramps, but he wanted to go get some more drinks, so I went, and he drank more, and then I really wanted to go, but then he wanted to dance, and…” sighs.

“Did you tell him you weren’t feeling good?”

“Yeah. A lot. Like multiple times: at the restaurant, when he was practically dragging me down Vermont, when he ordered me shots, when he begged me to dance with him.”

“God.”

“Yeah. Because I love it when a guy begs for anything. And I felt awful with the cramping, the last goddamn thing I wanted to do was go get shoved around and deal with his drunk, uncoordinated gesticulating—which is exactly what it was.”

“Oh no.”

“One song. I told him one song. And then I tried to leave, but he wanted me to stay, so I told him I felt sick, and he dragged me over the hallway where the bathrooms were and pulled out cocaine.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s. So. Crazy. I can’t believe that.”

“Did you know?”

“No. I mean I knew he did. And he joked about it all the time. But I didn’t think like he did it like that.”

“Yeah.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“I don’t fucking do drugs, I told him. I mean, you know, I take something to calm me down when I can, but I don’t do that. And I certainly don’t take bumps in a fucking hallway of some bar.” Rubbing her head, “I need my Diazepam.” Gets up. Looks around.

“What did you do when he did that?”

Finding purse. “I told him no. Thanks, but no. And then told him again I wasn’t feeling well and I needed to go home.” Opens container. Empty. “Shit.”

“And what he say?”

Turns. “And so he said we should go back to my place.”

Silence. Then, “What?”

“Yeah.”

“He invited himself over?”

“Yeah.”

“Christ.”

“But here’s the shitty thing, I let him.” Sitting back down.

“W—wait, what? Why?”

“I don’t know. I felt bad. He at least had to sober up.”

“Well… so what happened then? Did you two…?”

Shrugs. “I let him come over. He did. We made out on the couch. He was really too drunk to do anything else. Not that he didn’t try.”

Shaking head.

“Yeah. He tried to go down on me, but that was just bad.”

“Really? It was at least nice of him to try. Right?”

“But he was really bad at it.”

“Really? I heard otherwise. At least from him, I heard.”

“Yeah. Well. It may have been because how much he drank or that I felt awful in general, and then you throw in all the other shit.” Exhales. Drinks. “I mean I was barely wet. And he was doing everything wrong. It was like he knew how to do it, but he just was completely terrible with the way he did it. Like he had no patience or concept that I’m not a fucking light switch.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah.”

“So… then what happened?”

“I just told him to stop. I told him it wasn’t him, but that I wasn’t feeling well.”

“And that was it?”

“Well then I tried to suck him off, but… oh this is awful…”

“What?”

“He was too drunk to even… you know…”

Eyes widen. “Wow.”

“Yeah. It was just bad.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He passed out.”

“What?”

“I know.”

“Well did he say anything in the morning?”

Shrugs. “Not really. He pissed all over my toilet and walked out, giving me a thumbs-up before he left. He was still clearly a little drunk.”

Mouth open. “Oh wow… well has he at least called you?”

“He texted me something about being busy today.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“This sounds awful.”

“I know. I know it does. But things were going so well… and then it just got all fucked up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Exhales. “I should have just told him I was not feeling good and canceled the date.”

“But him acting that way—”

“No I know. It’s just,” sighs. “It’s nothing. I’ve just… need to think about it some more. He’s not a bad guy. I really do like him. Had I been in a better mood this would have probably gone completely different. Maybe he was really anxious, you know? Do you think that might be what it was?”

“Uhm… I don’t know… I mean… I… I just… not sure.”

“Me neither. Fuck.” Walks to the other side of the room. “And things were going so well up until three shitty weeks ago. Damnit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s fine. I’ll get over it. I’m just sick of talking about it right now. I’ve thought about it since I’ve been up and now I’m just really exhausted, and anxious, and don’t want to think about it anymore. I don’t want to have to think about myself for a little while.”

“I understand.”

Takes a sip. Moves to kitchen. “What about you? Did you and Jake have a good time at Nova?”

“Yeah.”

Starting to wash dishes. “That’s good.”

Picking nails. “Yeah, it was fun. We hadn’t seen one another in a week. So it was nice to be back with him. See him. I missed him.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah,” she sighs.

Comes back into the room. “What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

Sitting down. “No come on. I said my thing. You do yours. What’s up?”

“It’s just the same thing with Jake.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s always the same thing with him. He’s so… fixated on everything being a certain way… he always wants me to… be happy… and that’s great… but… I feel bad… I feel bad about it. I feel bad about him wanting to make me feel happy all the time. And that confuses the hell out of me.”

Nods. “Yeah.”

“And, and I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have to feel bad about him wanting to make me feel good, but it’s not the same. It’s like a compulsion almost with him. It’s like he’s just doing it out of habit rather than that’s because what he or I really want him to do.” Sighs. “I don’t know. Does that even make sense?”

“Yes. To me at least.”

“Well at least I’m not the only one then.”

“No, it makes a lot of sense to me.”

“It’s like I’ve ceased being me, to him. Like I’m just some woman who needs to be satisfied all the time. He has to pay for the meals. He has to call me. He has to be the first to go down on me. He has to come last. He can never do anything that might seem… I don’t know… offensive. It’s so… annoying. And I know he’s not trying to be like that. I know he’s legitimately trying to make things great because he really likes me and being with me. But… I can’t help but feel like a fucking thing with him. Like here’s Ida the Woman who must be fed dinner and taken to movies and she has to be told everything she wears she looks great in and that she always looks great even when she obviously looks like shit and feels like shit and doesn’t need to hear the lies and she needs to approve the kissing and sex messages and must give approval every time before she has her clothes taken off in an orderly fashion, one at a time: first shirt, then pants, then bra, then panties: and then she needs to be gone down on, and—whatever you get it. I’m just tired of that. I just… you know it wouldn’t bother me at all if he just came over to my apartment without asking, ripped my clothes off me, bent me over the table and just fucked me ‘til he came. That would be fine with me. Just do something, you know… just… I don’t know… choke me!”

“What?”

“Yeah maybe not that. But close. You know something like that. Do something. God it’s so formulaic with him. I hate it. It’s not mutual. It’s very… one-sided.”

“Yeah.” Gets up. “I know what you mean.” Moves to kitchen. “It’s all very one-sided.” Starts taking clean plates from the dry rack and washing again. “Very one-sided.”

“I don’t know if that gets through to him, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I feel like… like he believes he is doing everything right… but I… it’s not that simple… and then when I try to tell him, or explain, he just gets so frustrated and confused. He looks at me like I’m betraying everything he’s ever known… like women across the world… hundreds of years of equality… like I just asked him to end women’s suffragette or something… I don’t know.”

Brief laugh. “I doubt that.”

“But kinda.”

“Really?”

Moves to kitchen. “Yeah. I just don’t know what to do some times with him.”

Scrubbing vigorously. “Yeah.”

Confused. “Didn’t you already clean those?”

“What?” Looking down. “Oh… ha… yeah… god I’ve turned into my mother.” Setting dishes back on rack. Taking off gloves. “Ugh… my mother… did I tell you about the conversation we had this week?”

“No. What?”

“Conversation. It was more of a lecture. A bitter remonstration.”

Remonstration? “Uh-huh.”

“She calls me up and starts immediately complaining about how I never call her.” Starts picking at nonexistent food on plates. “How I’m her only child. The only child she ever brought into this world and that I’m all she has left and that I never call her. Everyone has left her and I never call her. Yeah well, Mom, maybe if you weren’t such a goddamn tyrant to me, maybe things would be a little different. But no.” Grabs glass. Pours soap. Begins scrubbing. “No you didn’t. Too busy trying to find another husband with that weight tied to you constantly. That barnacle you wished never happened, clinging 24/7. God.” Washes glass. “I’m sorry. You’ve heard this all before.”

“No. Vent.”

“She just goes on and on about how I don’t love her and I never call her and all she has ever done is bend over backwards and given up everything for me. The least I could do is call her once a week and talk to her. She’s all alone in her house and she’s got no one. The dog ran away. The cat hides. None of the neighbors care for her. Their children are terrible. All the interesting mothers have jobs and she’s too old for the stay-at-home ones. And it’s all just bullshit I’ve heard a thousand times and I’m sick of it. I told her that. I told her I’m sick of listening to her complaints because nothing is ever good enough for her because she doesn’t know what the hell she wants in life because she’s lost and no one ever told her she could have any direction. And I just get so exhausted with her and I can’t bear to speak with her for more than five minutes at a time, and that’s why I don’t call, and that’s why I don’t come ‘home’ for the holidays, and that’s why I moved to the other side of the country, and she still can’t seem to get a grasp of the obvious. I did exactly what she wanted when I was old enough—I left her alone. And now… now that’s not good enough either. She resents me. She resents everyone because, ultimately, she resents herself. She resents herself because she was the mother, she was the wife, she had the apron, the ironing board, the Tupperware, the smile, all that, she had it all, but it wasn’t what she wanted. Who knows what she wanted… or wants. Nothing. She wants what she can’t have. That’s what she wants.”

“And… you told her all this?”

“More or less.”

“And did she say anything?”

“Oh the same usual bitter bullshit.” Scrubbing. “How could I ever know? How could I possibly know what it was like? I don’t have any children. And I don’t have any children because I don’t have a husband. And I don’t have a husband because I chased Travis away. And he left me because I am unlovable—or something awful to that effect. When am I going to find a husband and be in a committed relationship with someone and have a child and then realize just how difficult it is? When am I going to put myself in that situation and then tell her how awful she is when I then know? I’ve got no idea. Not one clue of what it’s like to be a real woman. None of my generation knows what it’s like to be a real woman. Everyone’s just so high on standards with no perception of what it means to be a real person. Everyone’s so fake.” Washing suds from glass. Drying it.

Shaking head. “God.”

“Yeah,” nodding head. “Yeah, I know.” Filling glass with wine. “She’s just an awful human being, who just happens to be my mother. I’ll get over it.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Finishes glass. Pours. “I’ll get over it. I don’t hate her. I want to. It be a lot easier for me to just hate her. I’m getting there in certain areas. But I can’t. Not fully… no. Never. I can’t… it’s not her fault, not entirely. But just once… just once I’d like her to apologize… just once I’d like her to put herself in my place and understand me for… for five minutes.” Drinks a little. “I don’t hate her. I don’t.” Drinks some more. “She… just makes it very difficult to love her… that’s all.”

“Yeah.”

“But whatever,” forces a smile. “I’ll get over it. I’ll move on. I’ll be patient. Fuck… what other option do I have, right?”

Eyebrows rise. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right.”

Sighs. “I’m done.” Moves to the living room. Sits back down on the couch. Props feet up on the coffee table.

Follows. Sits on couch. Crosses legs.

Silence.

“So… what now… what do you want to do now?”

“Proceed with caution.” 

To The End: Monday: 10

I have a daily routine.  At 6:15 I will get out of my bed, slip on my scuffs and morning robe, and enter the adjacent bathroom.  I brush my teeth and floss.  Then I wash my face with hot water, lather, and shave.  Afterwards, I shower, dress back into my scuffs and morning robe, and go to the kitchen.  All of this should not take more than an hour because I want to prepare breakfast before 7:30 so that I may eat while watching the Gene Almann Morning Show.  Monday breakfasts usually consist of two eggs over medium and some whole wheat toast with butter and honey, a mug of hazelnut coffee with a teaspoon of Ovaltine poured in along with Half & Half.  Setting the proper amount of time between cooking the eggs and brewing the coffee is paramount in the breakfast leg of my morning routine.  Too long will leave the eggs harder than preferred, possibly burnt.  And too short leaves no room for properly mixing the Ovaltine while also spreading the butter over the toast.  I like real butter.  My daughter, Belle, once suggested yogurt butter, but I can tell the difference.  She said it was for my health, but I just read in the paper the other day about a study depicting the dangers of too much soy in the male diet—one of the main ingredients of the “healthier” yogurt butter.  The study showed a relationship between high soy intake and male impotence.  I laughed when I first read the article.  At my age, I really do not need to worry about such things.  Irrespective of the medical facts, I prefer natural butter, mostly because I can taste the difference.  You cannot replace authentic with synthetic.  I can taste it.

            Gene Almann has on teens and the recent “epidemic” permeating society: sexting.  As I pile some of the egg white onto my whole wheat, Gene asks one of the teens—an overweight fourteen-year-old girl—how often she sexts with her boyfriend—a seventeen-year-old with poor acne and a bad hair cut.  “I don’t know.  Uh—I think—um—like, everyday?”  Gasps.  The camera pans over the crowd.  Mothers in pastel sundresses cover their agape mouths.  Gene repositions the glasses on her nose.  “You’re not sure?”  The girl, Grace, looks around before answering in her timorous voice.  “Well… like, yeah.  I mean… I do it a lot.  Like, everyday.”  She looks to her boyfriend, Lance.  He has a reproachable smirk on his face.  “And how often in the day?”  “I don’t know.  We text.  And sometimes we sext.  I don’t know.  Uh… a lot.”  “So much so, you cannot even give us an estimate?”  “Um,” she rolls her eyes in contemplation.  “Yeah?”  Gasps again, the mothers are nonplussed.  Gene remains stoic.  Lance continues to snicker.  Some of the yoke drips onto my morning robe.  “Shoot.”  I get up from the table and wet a hand towel.  While rubbing the yoke out of my robe Gene asks Lance, “Now, Lance, how old are you again?”  Smiling, he states, “Seventeen.”  “Was this your idea?”  “What?”  “To sext?”  “What?”  “To send sexually explicit text messages to Grace.  Was it your idea?”  Lance looks over to Grace, who is on the precipice of crying.  He judges her body language incredulously.  “Look.  I think this is stupid.”  “What is?”  “This,” his arms widen as he looks around the studio.  “I mean, come on, sexting?  You gave it a name?”  He motions between Grace and himself.  “We talk exactly like we text.  No difference.  It happens.  Deal with it.”  “So it was your idea?”  “To do what?”  “To sext,” Gene says again, her tone more strict.  “I didn’t invent it, if that’s what you’re saying,” he laughs.  The girl next to him, Francesca, smiles.  “I will not let you make a mockery of my show, Lance.”  “I don’t think you need my help.”  “That’s enough of your condescension, thank you.”  “Whatever.”  Gene turns back to Grace.  “Grace,” she chooses her next words carefully.  “Have you ever sent pictures of yourself to Lance, through texts?  Explicit photos?  Like Francesca had?”  Grace looks up.  Her chin sinks into her neck.  “I—” she looks over at Lance, then Francesca, who is examining her nails.  “—no.”  She quickly silences herself.  “Is that the truth?  It seems like you are hiding something, Grace.  You certainly seem to be carrying a lot of guilt.”  “No thanks to you,” Lance chimes in.  “I’m not the one who got her into this,” Grace bites.  “This is lame,” Lance crosses his arms.  “Why is that?  Are you afraid you won’t look cool if you don’t act like this?  Do you need to keep this façade going for all your male friends watching at home?”  “Yes,” Lance says sarcastically.  “Because all my friends are home watching Gene Almann today.”  Francesca laughs.  Even Grace smiles.  “Lance, why did you even come on the show today?  Did you even want to seek help?”  “For what!?”  “The way you are treating your fourteen-year-old girlfriend, Grace, here—and the way millions of males like yourself are treating girls like Grace and Francesca—you should want to get help.  This is an issue spreading rampantly, affecting young girls throughout the nation—even cases of prepubescent girls sexting.”  Gasps.  I drop my toast.  “Cases?” Lance says.  “You’re degrading women.”  “Saying I want to _________________ is a bad thing?”  The crowd is shocked.  Some boo him.  One woman stands and Gene gives her the microphone.  “This kind of talk is exactly what is wrong with society today.”  Others around her nod in concurrence.  I nod, too.  More boo.  Gene has to quiet them down so Lance can speak.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.  What’s wrong with this?  Isn’t this natural.  Like it’s been going on for centuries… and now like that it’s in a new form of technology it’s the worst thing ever?  Like how is giving _______ sexist?  And how is texting about it the end of civilization?”  More hissing and boos.  Gene shakes her head.

            On my second cup of coffee I watch Shopping Smart with Jim and Sue.  Most shows consist of four to five items based around a theme, and the couple review and encourage viewers to purchase said goods.  This episode’s theme is “Making Life Easier.”  The first item is an egg holder.  “Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Sue addresses Jim enthusiastically.  “You do?” Jim says with the same energy.  “Yes.  You’re going to tell me this is just three spoons attached to one another.”  “Well…” he smiles.  “It does look like that to me.”  “Well, you’d be right.”  They share a laugh.  “But its also about how efficient an instrument it is,” she continues.  “This utility is extremely effective at what it was designed for.”  “And it is so sleek-looking.”  “That’s exactly what I was going to say, Jim!”  Sue pats him on the stomach.  He doubles over.  They laugh.  “Stole the words right out of my mouth.  Again.”  The next item is a cup with a niche at the bottom for one to store cookies, crumpets, coasters, etc. etc. Looking down at my mug I contemplate picking up the phone and ordering one.  I decide against it.  Jim and Sue also show me a banana case, a one-size-fits-all plastic container for the owner to stick his or her banana in and protect it from “damage from outside forces;” a day clock that shows the day of the week “so that you never get confused.”  “Jim’s always confused about those things.”  “Sue.  I thought I told you I didn’t like to talk about that!”  They laugh.  I like watching the show mostly because Jim and Sue make me smile.  An enthusiastic optimism about them: that’s the good thing about the two.  Sometimes they have good deals.  Like the last item: a penguin tea timer.  I end up placing an order for one—paying for it in six easy installments of $6.95 plus tax and shipping and handling.  Belle will like this.  I know.  She likes tea.  She also likes penguins.  I remember when we went to the fair once, and I won her a stuffed penguin.  Pinky the Penguin was his name, even though he was a regular tuxedo rock-hopper penguin.  She loved him, went everywhere with him.  Not sure what happened to him, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy the tea timer.

            After my second cup of hazelnut brew I have my morning bowel movement.  These are important.  More than following the routine, having multiple movements in one day is the sign of a well-functioning digestive system.  I pride myself on mine.

            At noon I am to be in Dr. Hague’s office.  Exiting the bathroom, I enter my bedroom and remove my morning robe.  I have a routine when I dress myself.  First, I place my robe back in the closet next to my evening robe and smoking jacket—the latter I have not worn in quite some time.  Opening the top left drawer of my dresser I select my socks.  Since I plan on going for a walk down to the park, I choose a sportier sock.  Sitting on the edge of my bed I put my socks on—left, then right.  In the drawer just beneath my socks are neatly folded white T-shirts.  I put one on.  Then I select a pair of slacks from the bottom drawer of my dresser.  Again, sitting on the edge of my bed I put them on—again left, then right.  I do not inspect the fit of my slacks just yet.  I tuck my T-shirt into my slacks, zip and button.  In my walk-in closet is a selection of belts.  My socks are grey-tipped high-cut whites, and slacks an off-khaki.  Black seems the safest bet, so I grab one of my many black belts off the holder in the closet and apply it to my person.  Now at this point I do not buckle my belt.  Instead, I unbutton and unzip my slacks and select a shirt to wear.  I choose a white button-up with no breast pocket.  Halfway through buttoning up the white shirt I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, have second thoughts, and decide to go with a light blue button-up with a breast pocket.  I zip, button, and finally buckle my belt—fastening it tightly around my waistline.  In the faux-foyer of my ranch-themed house I finish the rest of my wardrobe.  Shoes from Sketchers the doctor suggested I try for my lower-back problems.  And finally I put on my light spring jacket—the one with two inside pockets and flaps to cover the outside ones.  Fully dressed, I grab my keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter—next to my wallet and my prescription Zaroxolyn—and head out for the park.

            The ground is finally beginning to soften as winter makes its swan song.  I can smell the melted ice and thawing earth as I walk.  A block ahead some children play in the front yard.  Witnessing children outside makes me smile.  I remember when Belle was that age, playing with the neighbors back on Romaine Street.  She drew pictures of her dream house with a purple sun and green clouds, and Willy—Bo and Cheryl’s son from 403—would come over and pretend to be the husband.  Meryl fed them apple slices with her own homemade caramel, and lemonade.  Belle and the sisters, Nancy and Emily, from down the street rolled down the hill behind our house.  A huge man-made hill, left over from a failed building project.  The money dried up and this gigantic mound of dirt remained.  Slowly the grass began to grow there and after a year and a half no one could tell it was not a natural formation.  She loved that hill.  All the kids did.  Run up and down that hill all day and night.  Spring, summer, fall, winter, always playing on that hill.  Getting dirt all over their clothes.  Making the wives upset.  All on Romaine Street.  I used to take long walks back then, too, though for different reasons than now.  A lot is.  The children lower their voices as I pass by, careful not to make eye contact with me.  This troubles me.  All I want is for one of them to look up at me and notice me—just one glance.  The three girls talk about what type of drink they would like poured from the lone magical teapot.  One wants tea, the other coffee, the other milk.  The little boy and girl making drawings on the sidewalk talk about what colors they like best.  The girl: yellow.  The boy: orange.  He is making a spaceship, she a flowerbed.  Our paths will cross and one will have to look up at me.  Just one look is all I need.  To be noticed.  But the moment comes and goes.  They keep talking, and pouring, and drawing, and ignoring.  And I pass them by.  Only two blocks until I arrive at the park.  The light jacket I wore may have been not enough.  When the wind blows it passes right through me.  My arms fix closely to my body for warmth.  Clouds pass over the sun and the neighborhood turns a hue of grey-blue.  I zip my jacket the rest of the way and put my hands in the exterior pockets.

            I like to sit at the bench by the swings, overlooking the pond.  From there, I watch the water and the surroundings.  A willow hangs over the edge of the pond.  The way the branch bends gives the illusion the tree is reaching out to touch its reflection in the water.  Reaching out toward another world.  Occasionally, I will find young couples lounging underneath the tree.  My first kiss was underneath a willow.  Yves Moore.  Her mother was an immigrant from France, her father from the city.  Both strict Catholics, and with my brother and I sharing the same room there was no place for privacy.  Behind the school we both attended was a large field and a creek that ran through it.  At a particular break in the creek was a willow where many of the students went to show their affection.  “I don’t want you to think I’m bad at this.  I’ve never kissed anyone before.”  “Neither have I.”  A moment so innocent and brief by most accounts should be forgotten in the course of one’s life, but for whatever reason I never have.  Mallards like to rear their offspring in this pond.  Watching the younglings imitate the mother as she dips under the water for food, the way the water forms and falls off her back, is worth the walk itself.  But today there are no lovers, or mallards.  I simply sit and watch the placid water of the pond.  Then I feel a presence coming.  When I look down, a small dog stands before me.  I look around to see if its owner approaches.  No one.  “Well hey there little fella, where’s your owner?”  The dog, a mutt by the look of it—some mix of terrier and pinscher—sits in front of me, cocking its head to the side.  I look around again for someone, but I am alone.  “Well… looks like you and I are in the same boat, huh?  You come to look at the pond, too, huh?”  The dog looks to where I point.  “It’s good to do things like this.  Stare out at a pond and take it all in.  A simplicity to it, a purity.  It’s refreshing, really.”  I look down at the dog.  It continues to stare at me, shifting its head side to side.  I check the time.  “Oh boy, look at that.  I got to get back to the house.  I have a meeting with the doctor.  You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you?”  It just stares.  “Thought so.”  I get up from the bench.  The dog stands.  “You’re lucky, you know.  I envy you.”  As I start to leave the dog follows.  It trails far enough behind I cannot hear it, but I know its there.  When I turn around it stops.  “You go on home, buddy.  OK?  You go home now.  Someone’s probably looking for you.  Go home.”  I turn and continue.  I now hear the dog’s paws on the pavement in the distance until I reach the edge of the park.  The patter of nails on the concrete stops—I look back to see where it has gone.  Next to the sign welcoming visitors to the park, the mutt sits and watches me.  “OK.  Good-bye then.”

            Sitting on the cold wax paper in the examination room while the doctor looks at my results, I focus on a picture of a house: colonial design with two chimneys and six pillars holding up the small portico.  This is a commercial painting.  I see many of these hanging in a gallery in the town square.  Similar paintings are put up in dentist offices, banks, real estate offices, in the homes around where I live.  The purpose is to promote a sense of calm and passivity.  Tranquility.  Serenity.  Sanctuary.  Safety.  Make me feel like I want to be there, walking on the hardwood floors, and looking at the china in the cabinet, or inspecting the marble kitchen top and industrial refrigerator.  Get away and go live in there.  And on most visits, I do.  I picture myself sitting a lacquered red oak table reading the morning paper.  Meryl is there.  She makes those cinnamon waffles.  Belle is there, too.  She’s young again, explaining to me the plot of a story she has created.  Mr. Frog and Carrot are friends because Mr. Frog doesn’t want to eat her.  And Meryl smiles like I remember it always—all within that colonial house.  A place and time I can escape to whenever I need.  But today, for this visit, I cannot seem to focus like usual.  I stare at the painting, but no thoughts come to mind.  I just stare and see my reflection in the glass the colonial is encased in.  “All signs look good, Mr. Dale,” Dr. Hague tells me.  A man in his early forties, male pattern baldness beginning to show, the doctor often smells of department store cologne and medical supplies.  A smell I appreciate.  “Well, that’s a relief,” I smile.  “Yes.  You have nothing to worry about.  It looks like those walks have been doing you much good.”  “Yes.  Yes that’s true.  I feel a lot better.”  “That’s good.  OK.  So I will see you in a few weeks, right, Mr. Dale?”  As I start to put my clothes back on.  “Oh yes, Doctor, you bet.  I’ll be back again.”  “All right.  Sounds good.  Keep doing what you’re doing.  We’re making great progress.”

            Around 2:45 the bus comes to drop my granddaughter, Jamie, off.  “Hehlo, Pappa!” she says as she watches her feet proceed in front.  “Hello, pumpkin,” I pat her on the head.  “How was your day?” I ask, grabbing her tiny hand.  “Good.  We made colors books and I made a green unacawn and pink kitty and Missus Bround said I did good.”  “She did, did she?”  “Yep.”  “Well that’s just wonderful, darling.  I’m so pleased to hear that.  Mrs. Brown seems to always laud you, doesn’t she?”  “What’s loud?”  “Laud, honey.  Praise.  Mrs. Brown really likes to say good things about you, doesn’t she?”  “Uhm-hmm…” she watches her feet go from grass to sidewalk.  “What would you like to eat before Mommy gets here?”  I already know the answer.  Cookies and ice cream. 

“I dunno.” 

“Oh, you don’t?” 

“Mmm-mmm.”

“Usually you tell me cookies and ice cream.”

“…”

“Well I’m glad you don’t want that today.  I’m going to make you a ham sandwich.  And if you eat all of it, I may have some ice cream for you.  Does that sound good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she nods.

“Good.”

            While we wait for Belle to come, I put in my favorite movie—To The End.  It is a romantic film from the fifties.  Black and white.  No matter how many times I watch it never ceases to move me—especially the final moment shared between the lovers.  In the scene, Cary Grant’s character, Robert James, sits a broken and dejected man.  He has single-handedly brought about his own ruin and his wife, Helen, played by the beautiful Katherine Hepburn has come back to him one last time.  In the apical moment, Helen pleads with Robert: “If you care.  If you have any feelings left for me whatsoever you’ll tell me right now.  Tell me anything, Robert.  I beg you.  Tell me you hate me, tell me you love me, tell me you don’t want me to go.  Just tell me.  Tell me, Robert.  I don’t care about anything anymore.  I just want you to tell me something.  I can’t take this silence anymore.  I don’t want to have this between us anymore, Robert.  I beg you.  Please.  Tell me something.”  Robert sits in his chair, looking out at the world or his own reflection I have never been able to tell which.  His physiognomy is undecipherable, his equanimity unbreakable.  In a final act of desperation, Helen falls to her knees before Robert.  “Just look at me, Robert.  Please.  Just let me know you care.  Just one sign that you want me to stay, please, Robert, I want to be with you.  I don’t care about anything else.  Just give me something.  Show me.”  Robert remains still.

“Pappa?” Jamie asks.  Her crayons and white paper scattered all around her on the floor.  She presses the violet hard into the coloring book’s page.

“Yes, lovely?”

“Why do you watch this all da time?”

“Because it’s a great movie.  Don’t you like it?”

“It’s so sad.”

I laugh.  “Yes, sweetie.  I suppose you are right.  I keep watching with the hope that one time, he will turn and she’ll know and everything will be better.  I keep waiting for it.  Maybe this time it will happen.”

“No.  Is a movie.  It always does this.”

“Maybe this time he will look.”

            But she is right.  No matter how often I watch, and wish, Robert never turns to look—not even to see her leave.  “I love you, Robert.  Don’t you ever forget.  You come find me, Robert.  When you’re ready.  I’ll be waiting.”  As she closes the door behind her, the music crescendos, the orchestra hits those minor notes and the camera focuses on Robert’s face.  A close-up.  His visage still stoical, attention elsewhere, but slowly a single tear forms and begins to fall down his face as the music dies.  And then the credits come.  The End.  My heart beats flushed with ardor, I tear up.  “It’s so beautiful,” I say, wiping my eyes with a tissue. 

“Kissy-kissy movies are gross.”

I laugh.  “They are?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t like any boys at your school?”

Jamie does not answer at first.  That smile little girls are vouchsafed with forms.  “No…”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

A thought enters my head.  I recall the morning with Gene Almann.  “Honey… you don’t know how to text message, do you?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You do?”

“Mmm-hmm.  Mommy lets me.”

“She let’s you?”

“All da time,” she says enthusiastically.

“Oh my…”

The doorbell rings.  Jamie leaps to her feet. 

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

I stand from the couch, following my granddaughter.  The doorbell rings again.

“Okay, okay.  I’m coming, hold on.”  I look in the peephole.  Belle waits on the other side.

Opening the door.  “Hello, Belle.”

“Mommy!” Jamie embraces her mother.

“Hi, Jamie!  How was your day at school?”

“Good.  I did drawrings and glued, and played with Maggie and Olivia.”

“That sounds great.  Go get your things and you can tell me about the rest on the way home.”

“Okay!”

My daughter stands before me.  She rests against the doorframe, exhaling.

“What a day.”

“An hour later than usual, Belle,” I say.

“Yeah, I know, Dad.  I’m sorry about that.  It’s just I had a chance to make some overtime money and so I took it.  She wasn’t too much trouble, was she?”

“You know she wasn’t any trouble.  But I’m just a little worried about you.  You know if things are tough… I want to help.”

“You’re doing enough.”

“You’ve been coming later and later, Belle.  This is the seventh consecutive school day now.  I’ve been counting.  And you never call to let me know.  You should at least call me and let me know.  I worry.”

“I know, Dad.  I’m sorry.  It’s just… I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now…”

“I understand.  But Belle…” I hesitate.

She watches me.

“I can’t help but suspect… that… you are not being entirely honest with me.”  It hurts to say it.  I feel gutted as the words come almost involuntarily.

“Dad,” she moans.  “What are you talking about?”

“I just worry that you may not be working as late as you say.  Normally I would not judge, but… if this is some sort of retrograding… Belle… I cannot support that.  You have a responsibility to Jamie now and—”

“Are you kidding me?” she interrupts, chuckling at my last remark.  “Unbelieveable.”

“You have a responsibility now.”

“Responsibility?  You want to talk to me about responsibility, being a responsible parent?  You want to give me parenting advice?  Dad.  No offence, but you were never ‘Father of the Year’ material.”

“As wrong as I may have been back then, I am still your father, and the grandfather of Jamie, and I care deeply for both of you.  I want to take care of you.”

“That’s great, Dad.  Great.  Better late than never, I guess.”

Belle calls out for Jamie.  I know I should let the thought pass.  I know it is a silly thing to ask, and I have already tested my daughter enough for one day.  But I have to know.

“Belle, is Jamie… sexting?”

“What?” she looks bemused.

“I saw it on Gene Almann today.  Apparently all the youth is getting involved in this.”

“Dad.”  Belle crosses her arms.  She juts her chin out slightly as she looks up at me in disapproving shock.  “She’s five.”

“I don’t know.”

“That she’s five?  Come on.”

“I’m just worried.”

“She can’t even spell.”

“Well that’s good to know.”

“Jesus.”

“She told me you let her text.  On your phone.”

“She plays little games on my phone.”

“You can do that?”

“Dad,” she looks at me, hiding her face in her hands momentarily.  Belle is tired.  I may have done it again.  “I’d love to stick around and tell you all about the advancements in modern technology, but I got to go.”  She calls out for Jaime, who skips her way in.  Her backpack half zipped, the coloring book hanging out and a clustered trail of crayons behind her.  Belle sighs.

“I’ll get them.”

“Honey, how many times have I told you to zip up,”—her mother shows her again—“your backpack before you put it on?”

“Saury, Mommy.”

“Here you go, kiddo,” I go to hand Jamie the crayons.

“I’ll take those,” Belle opens her purse.  “Jamie, get in the car.”

“Yes, Mommy.”  My granddaughter hops away.

“Say bye to your Pappa,” my daughter instructs.

“Bye-bye, Pappa!” Jaime waves.

“Good-bye, sweetheart.  I’ll pick you up same time tomorrow.”  I missed the hug.  The thought to request one comes and goes.  I open my arms for my daughter.  “Good-bye, honey.”

“See you tomorrow, Dad.” 

She provides a curt embrace.

I say my final good nights and good-byes and head back to watch my movie again, where I hope to see Robert turn and tell Helen he loves her.