sweet…

…and sour

Behind my closed door, from my bed, I hear Noah rushing to the bathroom. He flushes before going. I know that means he’s going to sit on the toilet. In fact, I hear grunts and plops and then a long wiping silence followed by a flush.

As a parent I am very satisfied by his bowel movements. Proof of my good job on a number of levels.

I don’t hear him going back to bed though its only 5h30. I’m now fully awake so I get up.

Odd. I’m not even tired.

Noah is sitting in the living room, TV on mute, surrounded by his Halloween candy.

“Did I wake you, dad? I’m so sorry.” He genuinely is.

“It’s ok. I was awake already. This way we have an extra hour and half together before school.”

Wow, what I smile I get in recompense to such small generosity. What’s more I really do enjoy the morning, cartoon-filled snuggle with my boy.

“You’re not mad?” Crazy, for sure.

“Nope, actually, I’m happy.”

“Sweet.”

He pops a candy in his mouth. I should impede candy before breakfast but this morning the mood is … sweet.

Noah’s face contorts into the ugliest of expressions.

“Oh, that’s ssssssoooooo sour.”

He looks at me with delighted distress.

“You want to try it dad?”

“Not with my coffee. Later.”

“Woooooouuhhh. That’s one heck of a candy.”

He immediately rummages to find another.

“Sour is sweet…cool huh, dad. Like two things that are uh, you know… what’s the word?”

“Antonyms.”

“Yeah, opposites. It’s sweet because it’s sour. Get it?”

“Got it.”

You bet.

For a while now, emotions make me cry. Good, bad, sad, happy, all move me to tears. I’ve avoided listening to certain music, watching certain movies. even meeting certain friends because even beauty hurts.

My Mother dying hasn’t helped. I have even avoided bananas and strawberries, her favorite fruit, because it reminds me of her.

Yet, there is so much sweetness in my life. My boy, my sisters and brothers, both biological and spiritual. My mind.

Sweet, sour, bitter.

The sour and bitter are strong flavors, to be consumed in moderation..to be included in recipes, as accents, revealers.

Like emotions… all good but some to be experienced in moderation.

“Give me one of those sour ones, kid.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

To remind me of the sweetness in my life.

 

fuzzy…

…tongues

“There’s nothing but love. The gratitude for being here and experiencing love.”

Last week over coffee, this was my friend Linda’s response to my questioning search  for a reason not to be afraid of death, or life for that matter. This from a woman who has suffered in her body the abuse of those who loved badly, whose soul bears the rips and tatters of her generosity.

Her smiling eyes still speak of pleasure and compassion.

Odd. This conversation comes to me as I’m remembering Noah’s outburst  at the end of the school day, Friday.

“Thad!”

“What?”

“THADDY!”

Suddenly he has a lisp.

“What’s wrong.”

“Look.”

He sticks his tongue out at me. The passersby probably think he’s a rude boy.

“Ith all red. Mith Matula made hot thocholate for all of usth and thee made it stho hot dat I burned my tongue.”

“Ouh, fuzzy tongue. That hurts.”  Mustn’t laugh.

“We all went like ‘aaaaaahhhhhh’ at the thame time. You know, like in the cartoonths, when the sthtuff comes flying out of their mouths. Yeah. I can’t even thpeak.”

And that’s the worth, oops, worse for Noah.

This Monday morning, after a weekend filled with Noah’s adventures and my internal torments, his story comes back to me.

And Linda’s words.

The two memories weave in and out of each other, creating a fabric more sensed than seen.

Noah is in my mind all the time. Even when I’m thinking of someone else. Or when my thoughts are rolling around in the muddy waters of past, present and future apprehensions.

I’m often angry, or taciturn or an unwilling companion to my nine year old son.

As I move my body around the kitchen, preparing his breakfast, I feel like I’m dragging generations of tragic incompetents. Men and women lost in war and poverty and torn by desire and dreams of beauty.

I do believe that happiness breeds success and longevity. It’s taken my whole life to this point to accept it. I used to think happy was a dumb word for the philosophically challenged, Kool-Aid drinking grunts in the great Hallmark designed faux democracy that we call modern society.

No longer. The word may be silly and misused and abused, but the feeling is the most productive state I’ve experienced.

True happiness has been Noah’s gift to me. Too rarely, but more frequently than ever, I’ve felt …. happy.

“Noah, how’s the fuzzy tongue? You want cold milk?”

“The tongue is Ok now, dad. Listen, I can talk fine now. Warm milk, please daddy.”

Daddy is my favourite word.

“Okey-dokey.”

Yup, I said Okey-dokey. Dopey?

Love, would say my friend Linda.

Check it out in the dictionary. Its right beside Happy.

 

 

 

 

reincarnation…

…and stuff like that

“Wow, I’m so happy you’re like in a better mood, today, dad.”

The power of a smile, even tired and half-assed, as I get up and look over at Noah, stretched out on the couch.

Yesterday, I woke up a bitch and was a bitch all day.

“Maybe, like you know, the Nonna thing is getting better, not a lot, maybe just a bit today, maybe, like, more tomorrow. You know?”

“That’s the way it works.”

But it’ll take a while.

Yesterday I could measure how far I am from peace. I am like everybody else…I mourn in stages…  resistance, denial, anger and acceptance and so forth in whatever order they come.

“Dad, is today going to be a do-nothing day?”

“Can dad have a coffee before thinking?”

“Ok, I’m just saying.”

He’s just saying, but he’ll say over and over like a relentless horde of invading Norsemen.

“Maybe we could go to the library and I could like begin to read all the Harry Potters.”

See! Wave upon wave.

“Maybe.”

Waiting for the coffee to bubble up in the Italian Moka. Its fast, but Noah is faster.

He’s picked up his homemade magic wand.

“Spelionomous!” Real loud. A Harry Potter spell. He jumps off the couch and does loud sound effects of a magic wand battle.

“Dad….?”

Come, coffee, come.

“Maybe we could find a way to like decorate my wand, hey dad?”

His wand is a chopstick wrapped in hockey tape and planted into the handle of what used to be  small shovel my mother used to transplant African violets.

Noah borrowed it from her. Now its his. He’s removed the shovel part. Its become his magic wand.

A form of reincarnation, transforming one passion into another. Objects are what you use them for. With human desire as the only guide.

Maybe I could learn something.

“Dad are you sad again?”

He’s paused in his battle against Voldemort in the living room while I’m just hoping for the miracle of caffeine in the kitchen.

“I’m sad Noah…but right now I just want coffee. Then we’ll talk about the day, ok?”

“Ok….but maybe we could rent a movie?”

Magic wand eruptions come from the living room. He’s spitting up a storm of spells. Best stay in the kitchen, he’ll spray me from head to foot.

“Hey, dad…?”

Wow. There’s no stopping his hunger for life.

Maybe, I could learn something.

Wait. Didn’t I say that already?

Ah, the moka is grumbling. The water is being pushed through the grounds of espresso.

“Dad?”

Coffee! Coffee!