stringing more than a few sentences together was not happening,
not in the mornings.
at the kitchen table I surrounded myself with at least four cereal boxes
I ate the marshmallows out of my bowl of Lucky Charms.
was a point when I was 14 or so, when even a “good morning”
offensive, and somehow you understood.
shortened “hi” or “good morning” to some sort of grunt, like hmmpphhhh and a
head nod. I nodded back, sometimes with the hmmpppphhh back, but usually just
may have been offended by the seemingly rude lack of conversation replaced by
not words, but noises, but you understood, and that’s just how we did.
kept it going, though. The dialogue, that is.
in the afternoons and evenings were a better time for that,
sporadic conversations were sprinkled over the hours and days.
No fluff or anything.
Dialogue about how
to run faster or how to pitch a softball or the Anna and Elizabeth series I was
working on or how do we know if God is real?Or how could I not fight with my brother when he drove me
not long ones, but some here and there, punctuated with commas or ellipses or
when I was exasperated—just done—with whatever in life,
you would pop your head in the door of my room and ask, “Can we talk?”
knew it didn’t mean right that very moment, but sometime. I would sigh, and it
may have seemed like from annoyance, but actually it was more from relief.
Yes, we could. Not necessarily then, but sometime later that day.
we would, and I would talk, and then you would talk, and my clarity would
return and things would begin to make more sense.
days I try to keep it going with my own boys.
think it’s going better with David than it is with Kevin, but I will keep