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“And uh…those are um…supposed to be…” Eugene Terry, the grandfather to Jack Terry, the overly focused eight-year-old who happens to be on the other side of my boyfriend, stumbles over his confusion, “his um…?”
“Lightning bolts, Pop!” Jack exclaims in return, drawing my gaze over to his creation.
Oh…
Oh…I see the issue.
Those supposed lightning bolts look a little more like cocks and poor Pop wants to know how to point that out without pointing that out.
Max Terry, Jack’s father cringes through his own efforts to be supportive. “Those are…thick bolts, son.”
“And very…round,” Eugene uncomfortably points out.
“Why don’t we make them more pointed?” Max attempts to suggest before I can stop it.
In the tiniest of seconds, the young male’s confidence takes a hit.
One that maybe others don’t notice, but I sure do.
I always have.
Probably because in my life I’m always the one enduring the disappointment.
Or at least that was the case prior to Tucker encouraging me to embrace confidence a little more often the way I push these children to.
“Hey, Jack,” I casually intervene, doing what it is I am volunteering to do, “I really like your Zeus creation.”
His bright brown eyes dart up to me in excitement. “Yeah?!”
“Can you tell me more about it?”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” He points to the very top of the man’s head. “That’s his ‘fro. It’s just like dad’s because dad has the best ‘fro!”
Max helplessly grins.
“And right here he has a cross on his chest like Pop.”
Eugene’s expression mimics his son.
Most people would take a moment to correct him about the crossing belief systems; however, I’m not most people.
I meant it when I said I want to provide them with a place to connect to art on their own terms versus being told how to.
I stand by it.
Even if it means some overlapping theology.
“And my bolts are so big because Zeus is strong just like Dad and Pop so he’s gotta have them big and bigger and biggest or he’d break when he threw them.”
Hearing his reasoning has both men momentarily making eye contact with me, which allows them to see me lift my eyebrows in a wordless instruction to support and talk to the child versus judging.
Guiding rather than dictating.
Something I have definitely been exploring these past few weeks.
I have even been trying culinary art, but unfortunately for me, almost everything I create somehow has at least one black circle of failure. I somehow managed to get burnt marks in the fucking salad we had yesterday. Evidently, I may have toasted the almonds a little too long. Didn’t know a person could taste char on lettuce.
“What do we think of mine, Miss Bailey?” Tucker warmly asks allowing me to gracefully exit their family moment to have my own.
Well, sort of my own.
I know we’re not married – although the idea has idiotically crossed my mind – but we do have our own…little…tribe thing. Moments with those we love. For instance, we’ve had dinner with my siblings out and about and even once with my dad – who thinks Tuck’s a nice guy even if he has “too many tattoos”. He’s helped move heavy furniture in and out of my apartment typical boyfriend style. We’ve had a couple meals with his Aunt and Uncle and escorted them to a charity auction we later regretted attending as we crossed paths with Norm again. We’ve had Jaye and Archer over for dinner – he cooked – and met up with Eddie – with two ds – for a culinary experience that took place in an old boxcar. Our world’s…our lives…have meshed together and momentarily made our own little something.
Our very own slice of paradise in a place neither of us expected it to be.
“She is stunning, Tuck,” I adoringly coo while admiring his remarkable sculpting technique. “Who exactly is she supposed to be?” My face cranes a little closer to inspect further. “She almost feels too voluptuous to be labeled Aphrodite and a little too soft to be called Athena.” Our eyes briefly connect. “I know your preferred depictions have her with a strong jaw.”
“It still amazes me that one person remembers so much of what I say.”
“You say some pretty amazing things,” I compliment and resume my scrutinizing. “Not seeing any distinguishing marks I recognize, but perhaps she’s one of the goddesses in that African book I got you? One you read about recently?”
“Nope.” He uses the edge of his pinky nail to scrape away a loose piece near the woman’s eye cavity. “This is the most important goddess, I’m convinced has ever existed.”
Folding my arms across my chest occurs at the same time I inquire, “Who?”
“You.”
Whether I want to or not, I practically melt into a puddle right where I’m standing.
And when his blue gaze lifts to meet my brown, three little words slip off my tongue without my consent. “MotherofMonaLisa, I love you.”
