It Goes On

"In a sense, you've always been that way," said Theresa. She hit the button on the timer as it ticked to :02, preserving the still of the room from a bout of electronic dinging. "The serious part, I mean."

I frowned at that. She put on two oven mitts and took a pie out of the oven, its crust gently browned. She poked at one side, then poked a dotted line into the center of the pie. While the sides produced more of a crisp crunch, the middle did not. She sighed, put another ten minutes on the timer and returned the pie to the oven.

"Need to get this thing checked. The gas or something is low."

I grunted something, not really a word, in agreement. Outside, the neighbors, Steve and Sara, were walking their newly-adopted dog, a mutt of some sort that half-resembled a border collie, half a chocolate lab. I had run into them yesterday while out grabbing sugar at the corner, they caught me up on their lives. She could run a podcast, I remember thinking at the time, never without a word. Steve was a decent guy. Knew when to let conversations dry up and peel off. They do well together.

Last summer, Michael had gotten into a spat with a neighbor kid that led to them slinging wads of mud at each other while running through the neighbors' lawns. There was a sprout of woods in between most of the houses on this street, so the kids would regularly dart in and out of trees and lawns. Our own garden got slightly trampled earlier this year; I didn't see who did it but unless the rabbits caught a growth spurt, I didn't see much room for doubt. Not like I minded, really. We give away half of what we grow, anyway, and half of what we keep ends up going bad before we use it.

Anyway, Michael and this kid ended up chucking mud at each other. Of course, to make more mud, they had the idea to run whatever hose they could find around a couple of houses and muck up some fresh ammunition. They ended up with a supply depot's worth of mud to take from. Between the yard damage and the debris of their mudwar, we got really friendly with the neighbors after that one. Michael was good about it, though, only took one day to clear the paint off. Not as much we could do for the mud field, but Steve & Sara didn't seem to mind. They were a bit older, I don't think they really liked the outdoors that much. I suppose they had to learn now, with the dog.

Thinking about it now, that might not have really been a spat, may have actually been one of Michael's friends. Haven't seen the kid since, though, of course.

"Kids are going back to school soon, aren't they?" I asked.

"I told you, they've already been back. It's half-classrooms, masks on, everything like a year ago, is what Susie was saying. Her Nathan is having a hard time at it."

I sat there, head filling with those old clouds, the room feeling like you'd just gotten off a boat and the waves still rocking you. I felt like someone had taken a spoon and stirred up some espresso art someone'd made. 

I try not to drink it, if I can help it, while the art's still distinguishable. Always felt like someone put enough time into pouring the milk out just right that I could stand for a slightly less-hot espresso. It's supposed to be enjoyed twice, isn't it - the art and then the coffee. To rush through one to get to the other ruins the natural pace of the thing. Michael had never toed into hot drinks, really, apart from cocoa after shoveling the driveway in the winter, or snowball fights. Some of his friends had started dipping into coffees, picking up a Starbucks on their way to school. Apparently the high schools would let them keep those on their desks. Man, how times really change.

"Must be hard for them," I said.

A week ago, we still got the graduation checklist mailed to us that they send out to families of seniors. It lists off things like AP exam details, summaries of year events, college application tips. It had some plea at the bottom for parents to help fund this or that senior event. I'm just glad I didn't see it until I got home from work that day. I had to sit down after that one.

I sat on the floor outside of his room, the door open like always. It felt wrong to keep it closed. It also felt wrong to go in there at all, really, but I'd sat on his bed a couple of times. Just thinking. Theresa was a bit better about it than I was, thankfully. Kept it tidy, neat. Not that that's how he'd ever kept it, but even still. it was nice to keep the bright side of memories within reach.