You
can see the number of car seats they have tethered with latch systems
In
their lax frame of jaw and ruffled golf shirts
The
acquiescence in the lines of sight link to their wives like leashes
Peeping
out permissions on where he can help here, when he can conduct discourse
The
button up short-sleeves of the uncles in the room sans progeny
Is
denoted in the circumference of upper-arm displayed
The
tight hair, the grin used on Friday and Saturday nights
For
sleepovers of the other kinds, gleam in his teeth as he bites into pizza
Ordered
for the kids by the birthday-girl’s mother
Sunday
in January, I am at a bounce-house party for the nine-year old friend
Of
my own third-grader; this is a daddy weekend
Daughter
is off bounding with the inflatables and the Justin Beiber soundtrack
In
the warehouse of non-New Orleans bounce
I
am writing in the corner of a fold-out table next to the twenty-two other
adults
With
my notebook and pen adjacent to my covered Kindle since I was out in public
I
am reading my Hitchens, The Portable Atheist: Essential Readings for a
Non-Believer
The
patch on Samuel Clemons’ true thoughts of the life of a Fly is enlightening
The
mothers keep handle on the stack of presents, the obligatory fruit tray to keep
conscience
The
bags of blue or red Doritos, two-liter lemonades and charcoal-hued Coke
The
ice cream and the Kool Aid squeeze pouches and the water for the moms
A
grandmother peels the skin of a grape for her progeny’s progeny coming in for
rations
The
other adults curb behavior as the underling enters and then exits
I
am the only parent to bring my own supplies of thought to get through the two-hour
window
Rather
than staring at strangers and confetti painted on the concrete walls
I
read, I write, occasionally spoke, but all together unconcerned with appearances
Hour
one ends the pack of kids returns for the sugar and grease bounty
The
moms had set the purple plates and paper cups in rows which are quickly seated
In
sequence of BFF’s and social squawk, one chair is shifted to fit the quiet one
Kids
ask kids to spell I cup
Pizza
munched, powered-tortilla chips and then the lights go out to a candle
confection
Nine,
Nine, Nine, dad bungles the photo as he went to flash after the flame was blown
Darkness
and utters excuses to the watching wife
My
kid’s BFF’s mom who knows my kid’s mom better than she knows me asks,
Leaning
on the side wall (as I am the only adult still seated on my outpost)
“Did
you braid her hair like that? I was going to say, ‘Man that’s pretty good’
I
told her that her mother did last Friday.
I did take her to the Mardi Gras parade yesterday with her friend. I am from there. She says, “Oh, me too. My husband is from here though; he’s so
scared to go down there.”
Five
minutes earlier the lead-mom came around asking for pizza, her and her adjacent
co-stander declined interest. They were
walled-in by two-other moms. When the
space came open, they each snuck over and slid slice to paper-plate.
Hour-two
winds down to a measure of eye contact with my daughter as she is retrieving her
shoes after it was socks-only on the inflatables. The children are dispersing. I remind her to say her goodbyes. She gives hugs. We return to our car. We talk.
She
asks me if we can go to the library. I
know the library is closed on Sundays. It
is church day where we live. She wants
to get a book about nature.
I
stare at the passing trees on the interstate and introduce the concept of
photosynthesis. I talk about the
blueberries from Chile in our refrigerator.
I hold up an ink pen in my right hand and tilt it on a consistent vertical
angle and explain the hours of time as our planet revolves around our sun how
the intensity of the sunlight hits the northern and southern hemisphere at
greater or lesser proportions depending on which part of the revolution our planet
is experiencing.
I
am holding on this January.
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