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“I’m hoping to convince him to return it to the wild, but,” swallowing a gulp myself is done in between phrases, “I’m not holding my breath. Once the kid has made up his mind, it’s usually pretty made up.”
“Wonder where he gets that from…” Mom playfully taunts during her walk past us to brace herself against the edge of the nearby hot tub.
Another small snicker is expelled behind my glass prior to me questioning, “He go down okay?”
“Of course.” Her fingers fold politely in front of her. “He’s just like you were at that age. You gotta read Dr. Seussfirstbecause all the colors and artwork and rhyming is too exciting to go straight to sleep after-”
“The man was artistically fascinating. Hell, I still find him artistically fascinating, especially the artwork he kept at home for himself.”
She flashes me a warm beam and proceeds, “Seuss first, everything else second. He gets yawny about two pages in to book three and then it’s sleep city before we reach the final lines.”
“He’s like that for June, too.”
“Not you?” Rich innocently inquires.
“Nah. EvenifI read Seuss first, he still manages to rope me into at least four more books.” My smirk thoughtlessly softens. “It’s probably my fault. He always feeds off my energy, so if I get wound up over illustrations, he does too, which restarts the sleep clock.”
What can I say?
Art in all forms is interesting to me.
And between Lo and June, illustrations have sort of pushed themselves to the forefront for me like painting. The artistry of mangas is marvelous and over the years, we’ve found some remarkable concept art in children’s books that I can’t get enough of. What I love most though is getting tosharethat passion with the two people who give my world so much color.
Depth.
What happens if the new member of our family hates art?
Or colors?
Or can’t stand being covered in paint or creating a mess?
Dread overwhelms my senses prompting me to have another swig in an attempt to soothe them yet again.
“Wanna talk about what’s going on?” Mom’s head tilts slightly to one side in obvious concern. “Why June didn’t return to dinner? Why you haven’t called or texted her since we’ve been back?”
My hesitation to speak inspires Rich to offer an exit. “I can head back inside if you want, Tuck. Let you and your mom have this moment alone to talk about whatever it is you feel you need to without an additional presence you may not want aiding in the conversation.”
“You know I don’t mind you sticking around, Rich.” I cut my stare his direction. “You’re my…”
Rather than force me to end the sentence the way it logically should, he merely nods in acknowledgement. Offers a small smile. “I am your,” another nod is interjected where a word typically goes, “but that doesn’t mean you necessarily want me around for this type of advice or ear. However, if you want me, I’ll be here.” The adjustment of his glass is attached to a second grin. “Willing to provide any insight you might seek.”
After I nod again myself, I release a sigh heavy enough to shake the stairs we’re sitting on. “Does it make me a bad person if I don’t want more kids?”
“Oh, this is definitely a whiskey conversation,” Mom mutters louder than I’m sure she intended.
Without hesitation, Rich extends his glass for her to take. She attempts a denial that’s immediately met with a loving, wordless scolding. Mom snickers, shakes her head, and takes the barely touched beverage. “Thank you, honey.”
“Anything for you.”
His words simultaneously inspire gratitude and grief.
On one easel, I’m thankful she isn’t spending the rest of her life wallowing over the loss of a man who loved her just as much as this one, but on the other…on the other it’s still hard to watch her give herself to someone else thatisn’tDad.
Our family therapist has told me, I may never truly adjust to that.
That that’s quite normal for an adult child.
However, it’ll get easier to accept with time.
