It’s a calm morning after the storm. A windswept, messy, leaf scattered kind of morning. I’m rocking my son in his room. We both look out the window at the gray house across the street. I can’t quite put my finger on why I love this house, but it makes me feel peaceful. The porch light is still on, and there is a Halloween flag draped across the front window. I can’t tell if it’s a witch or a broom or what. But, it’s Halloween in nature, and it makes me feel fall-ish even if I don’t agree with the whole ghoul and ghost thing.
This house reminds me of something I would see in Cape Cod, I keep saying to myself, even though I’ve never been to Cape Cod. And the porch/front room/Florida room/whatever you want to call it reminds me of my Aunt Agnes’ house, its cluttered hottness now a memory of childhood – too much furniture and dust, a place where they set up the green, folding childrens’ table at Thanksgiving. My cousin, Jason, would tell us the same story every year which he made into a song – “It was back in 1983 when the cookies got the better of me . . . ” – about the time when he stuffed green beans (or was it broccoli?) under his plate as a child. It made me laugh every time. I still want to hear that song every Thanksgiving and be laughing around a green folding table with my cousins and brother.
My son plays with the pacifier around my finger and pulls it into his mouth. We continue rocking and staring out the window, a golden tree sways over the gray house on one side and a burnt red on the other side. A big yellow school bus rolls heavily up the incline passed the house, lurching and puffing. It feels so American.
I stare down at my son’s chubby fingers accented by dimpled knuckles and imagine him on that yellow school bus someday. I determine that we’ll walk to school, hand in hand, if we can. That he won’t have to ride the school bus. Then I realize I’ll have to let him grow up. I can’t hold his hand forever.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding . . . I sing to him this Sixpence version of the song and then Jesus Loves Me until he makes his signature roll back into my arms, his face buried in my chest, eyes shut tight, telling me he’s had enough. It’s time to sleep.
I carefully let his little body roll off my arms and into his crib, patting his butt before I walk to the window and pull the shade on the gray house.
