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next Last night Felony and I went to Food 4 Less, which is not the sorriest grocery store in town, but the second sorriest. There is a strict class-based hierarchy of supermarkets in our town, and Food 4 Less is solidly blue-collar and somewhat international in its clientele. I once saw my neighbor's college-age Republican son in there and he wouldn't even meet my gaze. I suspect he was mortified. Not that I'm so tight with my neighbors; I avoid them as much as possible while maintaining a vacuous fa�ade of friendliness, because I know full well that the more they know about me, the less they will like me. Also because I feel that I ought to take better care of my existing friends, rather than cultivate new ones with whom I have little in common save an address. Anyway. Going into Food 4 Less, I get a cart from the cart slinky and I find a zippered wallet lying in the kid seat. I gave it to the manager, who opens it and finds an ATM card with a man's name on it, plus a datebook and assorted other stuff. I see the manager in an aisle later and ask if anyone has come in to claim the wallet. Nope. I wonder aloud if this fellow will head to the ATM tomorrow around lunchtime and discover he doesn't have his wallet. In the line to check out, Felony tries to persuade me to buy a tube of children's toothpaste because it has Tweety Bird on it. Her friend's great-grandfather made a wind chime and painted it to look like Tweety Bird, so now Felony feels she must have something, anything with Tweety Bird on it. My instinct is to say no. My instinct is always to say no, but then I remember that she hasn't been as diligent I would like about brushing her teeth with the sugar-free children's toothpaste from Tom's of Maine, so I weigh the pros and cons of capitulation while dispatching her with an order to "find out how much it costs." Just then a big tall guy with a silver cap on his tooth walks right up to our cart and for a second, I am nonplussed. He says he wants to thank me for turning in his wallet. "Oh good!" I exclaim. He tells the story of his losing it, and I tell the story of my finding it and turning it in (both of which stories are perfectly predictable in every regard). He says there are a lot of dishonest people in the world and he is glad I am not one of them and God blesses me two times. If I were a nicer person, less of a stickler, I would bless him right back or at least say "you too" but instead I stammer "Oh � uh, take care." In the car on the way home, I tell Felony that she should tell her Daddy what "we" did at the store. I want her to feel proud of doing the right thing. She says she wants to tell me about someone that is the best at something and I have to guess. I guess and each guess is sillier than the last, so in exasperation she reveals, "No! You are the best Mommy!" and I say, "No, I am not the best Mommy." Then, thinking better of it, wanting to redeem my negativity: "But I'm the best Mommy you got!" She laughs and then gets quiet. She says, "Mama, why do people have to die?" Ah, here we go again. "That's just the way of the world, sweetie. Everybody dies. We have to make room for the people who come after us." "But why?" "I don't know why. That's just the way it is." "But why can't we just keep on staying alive?" "Well, if everybody lived forever, they would get very tired. Their bodies would all wear out and they couldn't do anything with them. Our bodies wear out. We can't last forever." "But I don't want you to die." "Oh, I don't want to die, either! But I just hope that by the time I die, I will have lived a long and happy life." She starts to cry. I say, "Hey, I'm not dead yet!" I tell her I want to meet her children, and that I'm so happy she has been able to become close with her Nana, my mother, and that even though I know my mother has to die some day I still feel happy knowing she is here right now. And she is a big part of our lives, and that makes me very happy. She is still crying, and I get that little nagging worry that I've done everything wrong and I should have given them heaven. Why didn't we just give them heaven? Duff wanted to and I said no. I have told them other times that people who are Christians believe in heaven, and described it as best I could. I had heaven but I was tremendously frightened about death. By the time I was 10 or 11 years old I couldn't fall asleep at night worrying that I'd never wake up again. By now we are in the driveway and I tell her to give me a big hug. She snuggles up to me and I squeeze her. Then we get out of the car and she starts crying again, quietly, and I pick her up high and hold her very tightly for as long as she wants me to. I squeeze her and swing her from side to side, and I don't hurry like usual. Pretty soon she wipes away the tears and says, "Can I unlock the trunk myself?" and holds out her hands for the keys. She's over it, and I am very moved by her love for me and my love for her. Going to bed, she wants me to read her a poem. I'm tired of nursery rhymes so I pick up a Norton Anthology and read her John Keats's "When I Have Fears." She can't understand it quite yet, but I do. WHEN I have fears that I may cease to be prev archive next 0 comments random |