Day: February 22, 2020

Masked in part by the large crowd of gathered children playing road hockey in the street right out front of the house. The shadows are slowly growing long along the front yard. Birds are chirping, and a subtle wind is rustling the leaves of the two large maple trees obscuring the view of the street from the porch. Stepping out of the house onto the wooden deck, she carries a glass of red wine, a cold beer in her manicured hands, and a box of crackers under one arm. Seated in a wicker chair, her husband is engrossed in the game going on with the children. “What’s the score?” She asks. “I have no idea, but you just missed an epic collision. More of a pile-on really. The girls are watching the ball and their sticks instead of where they are running. Going to have quite the knot on their heads tomorrow. Ha.” He says it nonchalantly, we’ve always given the girls the space to play, and ultimately hurt themselves with the pride of knowledge gained in the disaster. Reaching over his shoulder he takes the proffered beer. Sitting down gingerly, her glass held in her finger tips so as to not spill she pulls up the matching worn white wicker chair. The cushions are well weathered, and covered in maple keys and pollen. She’ll have to dust off her bum when she heads inside later. “Cracker? – no. Suit yourself.” The children are running about, it is semi organized chaos. Children strip the ball from teammates, kids run into one another. Tired kids fall over on the curb and wrestle on the manicured lawns. “So, can we talk about this now – or?” The question left to hang in the hot humid air between them. “Yeah, I guess so. Not like the girls will be able to hear us from here. Look at those muppets, it’s pure melee combat out there! Keep your head up! Look around you! See who’s open.” He shouts in a sudden lively burst. The girls, red faced, continue to battle it out on the street vying for the ball. The neighbourhood kids are all in a giant tangle of limbs and hockey sticks. “So, what’s the deal then. What do her teachers say?” He blurts out the question. Angst writ large across his creased forehead, his greying hair cut short at the temples, with a longer mop on top. “That’s just it, they love her. Say she’s just lovely, a real helper, a good listener, and she’s one of the better students academically.” She says it with a huge rush of outward breath, as though deflating with the sentiment. “Well – fuck. So we get the asshole at night, everyone else gets a lovely child. That’s just perfect.” He says it with a hint of a hysterical laugh underneath. “According to what I’ve read, it means they’re just really comfortable at home with us. They feel our unconditional love, and can drop the goody goody act and be more natural. Or so some child psychiatrists said. I don’t know.” Swishing her red wine around the glass, she looks down the front lawn to the two menacing, but beautiful daughters playing hockey, for keeps. “Good thing they’re cute. I could just strangle those two some times.” “Eh? You fucking think! You saw me, last summer trying to teach her her letters and numbers. Like pulling her god damned teeth out of her head. What a pain in the ass. Then she gets tired at night, cuddles up next me and says she loves me. I melt. Adorable. I love her so much, but what an asshole.” The last part is said in unison. A common refrain among the two parents. “Ok, girls. Ten minutes then you gotta come in to wash up for dinner, ok!” More of a statement than a question. The girls bark back in answer. “Was that a yes?” She asks. “Fuck if I know. They’re still growing, so we must be doing something right. It’s tacos tonight, so I don’t foresee a huge fight to get the youngest one to eat.” Standing up, he dusts off his beige cargo shorts, slips on his berks, and wanders down to the curb. His white plain t-shirt almost amber in the waning sun.The late afternoon sky is a lovely rich blue. Squirrels can be heard chattering in the large fir tree beside the driveway.