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May '04 |
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I sneak around the bedroom looking for monsters in all the typical hiding places. “Ah-hah!” I say, throwing open the closet door and shining my flashlight into the black hole. “Be gone with you, monster! You’re banished from this room!”
Silence followed silence. The night, the water which creeps under the bridge. Spring. Doesn’t that sound nice. Spring – it gives a person visions of big metal spiral bed springs at Grandma’s that squeak when you roughhouse on the bed, of jumping dogs chasing Frisbees, of leaping off the diving board. Spring as a season, well, that just makes the word sound even more promising.
Once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl with big round eyes and black curly hair. But the times she lived in were not so beautiful as she. All she ever wanted in life was for someone to tell her a story. But nobody ever did. Nobody had time. Mom and dad had no time because they were rich and famous. The maid-servant had no time because all she cared for was to put the girl to bed as early as possible so that she could then disappear with her lover. So every night the beautiful little girl lay alone in bed wishing that there was somebody with her to tell her a story. She wished she could read. Then she would be able to read tons of stories every night before going to bed.
My son sucks at soccer. Look at him, playing with the string on his shorts, chewing his lip, watching the ball roll by. Pathetic. The coach looks back at me, sitting in my lawn chair, PowerBook on my lap. As if it were my fault. As if I am one of those fathers.
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