Some mornings you see the mist floating on the nascent sun and feel the promise. Some mornings as the sun rises so does the desperation of another day filled with dread.
Some days hang in the balance. Fragile.
This morning, Noah drags himself out of bed, rolls on the floor and stumbles to the bathroom. I hear him chatting up the cat as he serves him food and fresh water.
I set out breakfast on the small table in the living room. This morning it’s an unhealthy choice.
Yup. Some mornings it’s fruit and fiber, some mornings its milk and bread and cheese. Some mornings….
Noah dives onto the futon. Doesn’t even look at the breakfast stuff.
“Hey dad, I slept like a tree.” His bilingualism means that he doesn’t quite master colloquialisms in any language.
“Did you sleep well, dad?”
“I’ve been up for hours. I watched the sun rise.”
This morning it took forever for the light to assert itself in the sky.
“Poor you dad. What were you doing all those hours.”
Smoking a joint to pass the time, to weaken the anxiety, to fill the loss.
“Just thinking, I guess, waiting for the day to start…”
“It was okay.”
Actually was, probably due to my long friendship with solitude and doubt.
“I had a weird dream, I think that’s why I, uhm, was so asleep. You know?”
“Ah! To sleep, perchance to dream!”
“It’s from Hamlet, a famous play by William Shakespeare.”
“Well duh! If you don’t sleep you can’t dream.That’s so obvious.”
“I dream when I’m awake sometimes.”
“That’s dead-dreaming dad.”
“You mean, daydreaming.”
“Haha, yeah, day dreaming. That’s like imagining, you know it’s really not the same thing.”
“Yeah so you know my dream, yeah, it was all about the play at school. Yeah, I was dreaming like about when I was rehearsing and my voice it like went all screwy because you know when it cracks yeah because I was like growing a beard and yeah, I started to sing and I sounded like a goat.”
He’s exhausted his air supply. Gulps down some air.
“And then whoosh I found myself in front of Ms. Tanya and I was trying to remember if like interpersonal or intrapersonal was when you were with other people or when you were with yourself and like I couldn’t remember.”
“Interpersonal and intrapersonal?”
“Yeah, dad, it’s cool, we learned that uhm, yesterday when we did whole tests on like human intelligence. You know there’s like being smart like in IQ smart but then there are seven other types of intelligence, you know?”
“Uhm, there’s like space intelligence, not about the stars, ha, but about things and like being good with them when you use them.”
“Yeah, yeah. Then there’s linguistic, you know about languages and yeah and then uh uh uh, kineth…kinethtitic, no, kinethis….aaaawwww…I can’t say the thing dad.”
“Kinesthetic. How you move.”
“Yeah…that’s it dad. How do you know?”
My Velcro intelligence. Stuff sticks to me….not always the most important stuff, but still, useful to impress my kid.
“Learning is the one thing i love the most.”
Actually, not really, but I’m keeping the conversation on a PG-rating, avoiding the triple X thoughts that always threaten to overtake me. I score off the charts in XXX intelligence.
“Yeah, so then, there’s eh, musical intelligence and and…oh yeah, math and logic and then, the, uhm… how many am I missing, dad?”
“Two, I think.”
Yeah. so , uhm oh yeah now I remember, Natural, like all about how to ‘lalala’ you know when you’re in nature…”
His ‘lalala’ is a simulation of walking down a forest path.
“And the last one is the Exit intelligence…”.
He throws me a look of doubt.
“This is what it is, dad…like to know stuff about stuff that you don’t see or like touch or, yeah, you know?”
“Yeah yeah that’s it.”
To be or not to be…
“So you say you were tested?”
“Yeah and I scored really good everywhere.”
“I’m sure. But still. These tests are supposed to show your strengths. Even if you score high on all of them, you score higher on some.”
“Music and inter…intra…aaaawwww…which one is inside yourself, dad?”
Music and deep knowledge of oneself. A fucking artist! Shit!
“Oh, Oh, Oh…..”.
He has gone suddenly still, wide eyed, slack jawed. He’s acting, but to emphasize real feelings. An artist! Shit!
He points to the table before him.
A picture perfect glass of milk complete with the droplets of rolling condensation and a new bag of OREO cookies.
“Yup, Noah. That’s breakfast. Today’s special.”
He launches himself at me. A full body hug.
“Oh dad! You’re the best ever. Really.”
He looks up.
“How many can I eat?”
“As many as you want.”
He installs himself in front of the glass.
“That’s good dad, because there are like three ways to eat Oreos….”