Friday, October 26, 2012
When my previous son was born I set an oyster cracker on his head and said he was done. He turned out wrong. Soggy from the beginning, he let the fascination slip into the soup of his childhood; tasteless, dumpy, sickeningly sweet. He put a lacy cap on his scalp and let his hands creep into his locks. The tumbling curls bloomed down the sides of his trembling, perennial glare. Do you remember if your childhood went out safely? Does that reel spinning in your head accurately portray what made you in the early years? My son's don't. He keeps his eyes open with the sun dumping it's rays in there like garbage bags wrapped around plastic doll parts. Cloudy in there, lost inside a horse race that goes round and round and gets him up each morning. The competition never comes to pass. I know, it's tasteless to keep him in the fantasy. There isn't a Melbourne Cup happening anywhere near him. This fascinator atop his head isn't going to woo the venture capitalists. They won't be persuaded to lay a piece of a poor country upon his finger. They aren't there for him when he wakes up sobbing from the slight fares he pays in nightmares. But I keep him satiated with perfunctory glances like 24 karat gold necklaces with fake diamond insets. His eyes glisten and glow and get stupid with thought. What if. What if you had what you wanted.