echoingaeroports
We walked to the motel from downtown. We mostly sat in silence, without saying a word. There wasn't and still isn't much to say. I appreciate your visiting, but I can't give everything to you. I am waiting.
He returned from China in November, had been there since September. She ran up to him and gave him a big hug. She was so excited to finally have her father home. He gave to her the smallest of bags, hand-sewn with intricacies she wouldn't even see until years later. The only thing she knew then was that she would keep it forever, until the last thread frayed away and the only thing left was the memory of that colourful little pouch.
We sat in the den and watched zombie films for hours and hours. It was warm there. We knew we were safe there. Every time a zombie appeared on the telly screen, you jolted me and tried to startle me. It worked every time. I squealed and giggled. After the films, we sat on the floor, at the coffee table, writing down lists of things we'd absolutely need in the event of a zombie apocalypse. You wrote down the practical things - weapons and rations and money. I wrote down the not very practical things - my blankie and extra undies and clean shirts.
We were at the fair. I begged you to come with me on the tilt-a-whirl, a ride you have never made it through. You finally agreed. We climbed into our steel shell and the ride began. I was laughing and smiling; this was my favourite ride at any fair, the first one I went one. I remember like it was yesterday. I turned to you, beaming. Looking back, it seems like slow-motion. Your face became distorted, while my face went from excitement to complete disgust, as you threw your cookies all over my front.
I peered down at yo, sitting in your stroller. You hollered and hollered, and I remember wondering if I was that collicky when I was small. I ran with you. I pushed the stroller, not too hard, though. I ran you around the front yard and you started giggling. I heard and didn't have to see your face to see that beautiful smile. All I could see were your hands grasping out to touch things that were not there. At age seven, I marveled at how small and intricate your baby-hands were.
I was calling you from a hard plastic seat in the terminal at Gate C. Detroit. You were the only person I knew to call, because I didn't feel like talking, and I knew I could count on you to talk to me and let me just soak in peace and light and simply listen. You went on and on for hours. Normally I would have checked to see how many minutes I'd used, but with you it was a little different. I needed this. I hadn't been able to listen in so long, and finally being able to, especially to you, felt like my own small corner of heaven.