In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “High Noon.”
I know I’m jumping the gun a bit, but the lovely woman who will arrive to give me my next treatment might not want to wait while I type.
Today’s Easter and like many people the visions of little children fill their heads. It might be their own, it could be the kids next door, or like me people who contemplate what have been. Right now I know my nephew is running around the house chasing chocolate eggs my parents have hidden about the place. What used to be a full contact sport between my brother and I is now a single child spinning wildly as he rushes through various rooms.
Guys love to joke about how they fear their daughters getting picked up for their first dates. How they are going to act all macho as the kid waits for permission to run from the house and start their evening. [I once picked up a young lady whose father thought it amusing to show me the shotgun he kept in the front hallway’s closet! Scared me to death.] But what we all tend to forget in the conversation is that feeling of melancholy that follows, where we realize our child is on their way to being an adult. That is scarier than the guy.
Today I picture the little dress she would have been wearing. Teetering around the floors, the dog in tow, as she tried to wrap her hands around a set of dyed eggs. A woven basket dragging behind her, all that fake neon grass streaming out in pieces. A gentle breadcrumb trail of green and yellow. Those silly shoes banging on the hardwood as she raced to find her next treasure. Me forgetting to pick up the camera because the laughter in the house is overriding any sense of history needing to be recorded.
My mother would have gone nuts, toys filling a basket, eggs filled with coins and cash for prizes much later. Now my dad would have been running around with a camera, he of the “I spent a fortune on this thing, I’m going to use it!”
How much chocolate do you think would have ended up on the front, sides, back of the little white dress? In my mind I’m seeing tiny hand-prints, accidentally left. A big circle of brown dripping down her chin.
Just like the pictures I have of graduation, her mother helping her get ready for a date, or her wedding, they make me both smile and immensely sad today. As I watch the news, coverage of those little girls and boys, some of whom would have been her classmates, reminds me of all that could have been. All I wanted it to be.
I like that dream.