Sunday, May 12, 2013

Good Morning Jack...

Letter to my Son
Sunday, 12 May

Mother's Day

Good Morning Jack…

Mother’s Day is a big deal for your Mom because you’re a big part of it.  I know you and your brothers and sister will make this a wonderful day for her.

Of all the magic chests available for opening this day I choose the one labeled “It’s a bird, it’s a plane…”  Ah!  I feel like I’m falling.  Are these clouds?  I should have worn my jacket.  You never know with these things.  They never come with warning labels.  OK, now this is better.  We've broken into sunlight.  Oh, breathtaking.  I can see for miles.  Look… sand dunes.  A large body of water, true blue, with waves, breaking frothy white.  Looks like summer with all those barbecues down below.  Let’s drop in closer.  Nothing unusual here.  People tossing the football.  Dads playing catch with kids using gloves.  There’s a dog racing beneath the lazy arc of a Frisbee.  Some kid in a playpen is putting up a fuss.  It just feels like Sunday somewhere, doesn't it? 

Let’s head this way.  I see a roller coaster close to the horizon.  You can just hear the sound of screams over the crash of waves.  There must be a merry-go-round nearby, as well.  What else sounds like a calliope, besides a calliope?  Yeah, we’ve got a real carnival going.  There’s the Midway.  Carnival barkers, pink cotton candy, a boy throwing up getting off the Octopus.  Yummy.  Looks like he had popcorn and fried candy bars for lunch.  At least it’s not on the seat.

Hey, grab that balloon.  It’s OK.  They go by fast.  There will be others.  Tie them on the kid’s wrist and they still find ways of getting away.  No.  We’re not getting another.  Wave good bye to the balloon.  Bye, balloon, bye.  See, it’s going home.  They all live in the sky, you know.  Their mom is calling them home for dinner.  Yes, they are light eaters.

I think we’ve tipped past midday.  More people are making their way to the parking lot than coming to the park.  The trash barrels are stuffed to overflowing.  Hot dog wrappers blow across the grass everywhere.  Old men sitting at picnic tables have undone their top pants button.  Grandma is crabbing at them.  For heaven’s sake, Frank.  You’re not at home.  Poor Frank.  He didn’t leave room for dessert.  He loves cherry pie and a scoop of half melted ice cream.  Now all he can think about is finding somewhere comfortable for taking a nap. 

Its purple evening twilight.  The carnival lights have just blinked on.  You can hear the electric buzz.  There’s the pop, pop, popping of a shooting gallery, of darts piercing balloons and breath-filled junk food bags exploding between the slap of hands.  Hear the clanging of assorted game bells, the slap of doors shutting behind the screams of teenagers riding carelessly into The Haunted Pit of Doom and the blare of mountain yodels coming from the Alpine Slalom as it races backwards at death-defying speeds.  We’ve used up our role of tickets and it’s time to go.  It’s time to make way for a whole new flood of teens arriving with their dates, laughing, carrying on as they do, knowing full well they’re here to take ownership of all the future tomorrows.  It’s time to go.  It’s time to make way.  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.


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