November 2, 2013
The mom next to me is
taking up a seat and a half. I attempt to slide in, like an unaccompanied minor
but it takes far too much effort to think myself six again. She is sliding her
stubble finger across the screen of her cell phone, ignoring my skin scraping
the side of the plastic, unyielding arm of the theatre chair. I am eager to
hear my daughter’s alto voice, cascading across the room, to sooth my achy
joints. Still feeling like a woman acting out the role of “Paula,” just enough
out of my body to yield to the discomfort of being ill. I breathe in the
direction of Chubby, hoping she catches whatever I have to offer. I blow my
nose non-stop, timing the noise with the rise of the trumpets during the jazz
performance and wide-mouthed “O’s” of the women’s chorale songs. My purse fills
with used moist Kleenex and I scramble for hidden back-ups in each pocket, sure
I do not have to resort to excusing myself past the row of eight seats to the
left or right of me to get more. Luckily, I have a sufficient supply and
skirmish my way to the back of my chair for the final song.
The selections are
incredible and I enjoy the concert more than I expect. I bow out of the rest of
the program since Taelor is finished for the evening and I want to tell her
just how great she is. The girls are preparing for a Halloween Party at their
place so I know it would be a short visit. I hand over a number of goodies for
my wee one, just to remind her how special she is, and hope I am not dolling
out the crud as well.
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