The Joy of Children Laughing Around You
Act I: Spin
First days are the worst because regardless of the space or the time, fears of a mother always fulfill. How true, too, this is and will be for Millie and her daughter Sam, who will take on another one of her extraordinary firsts, school, where looming fists of awkward torture strike in clutched agony.
Millie allowed the thought of this particular first to tap along the walls of her mind but never truly inside where it could fester and turn. Sam, on the other hand, saw this as a real opportunity, which made Millie feel even worse. Sickness cemented in her stomach; nonfat yogurt exited her guts. She couldn't help it. Sam’s excitement mounted higher and higher each week. The young girl would climb inside the house with her stain-ridden garb, hands full of two handwoven dolls, and proud to march her twigs through the archway and into the open kitchen just to mark one ugly blue “X” on the calendar, each a blood stain on leather sheets. Millie adored her daughter, but this part of the day made her fantasize of grabbing the girl by the throat. The child certainly had a lot of nerve.
When the days inevitably passed and only one remained, she was reminded that Sam was ready to introduce herself to her own little world. Youth could not wait any longer. So yes, Millie certainly wanted her love to run and live, maybe even fly one day, but why now? why today? she always thought, forgetting she did the same long ago. Regardless of the space or the time, fears of a mother always fulfill: The promise of growing up would never go away.
Their home had a funny air all afternoon. Sam had just finished playing outside with a stray — dewy with rain — the canine cuffed between her coiled thin arms. The forgottens were her favorite, especially the smallest ones that had the widest eyes and the sharpest teeth. The year before, she found a puppy named Needles. Her prickly exterior never halted small Sammie. In fact, one would bet that the rough shell made her love the damn thing even more.
Oh yes, Sam had quite the hold on Needles, they clung together for a few weeks. No bitch in the world was fondled more. Unfortunately, for Sam at least, since her mother did not enjoy having to feed the dog, clean the dog and pick up the dog’s shit, Ms. Needles “died” rather sudden. The heart failed, Millie said. Neither female saw it coming.
The moment Sam stepped inside, Millie turned from the island and saw her child with the newest furry friend. Then, in anger, she reached her paw further. Come here.
“Sam, why do you bring these things into my house?” the mother began.
The small girl paused.
“I dunnnnnnnno,” Sam said, as she tapped her bare right toe with her naked left heel.
“I like this one. I just like him.”
Millie did not move and neither did Sam, except to play with the pet more, but she sensed that something was not right with her mom so she stopped rubbing his floppy mellow yellow ears and looked at her to go on.
“Sam, you can’t keep him.”
The young girl was already set to cry.
“But why nawwwwwwt Mommy?!” she yelled.
“Cause you didn't take care of the last one, I did. I don’t think you’re ready to have a pet.”
And with just one glare, the young girl’s heart sunk to the bottom of the basement. Her face flushed cold. Can’t keep him was the only thing Sam had heard.
Dinner was a “shit show” due to the drag of earlier events where a small young girl, who had already loved an animal, or at least was infatuated with it to a great degree, was told she could not keep said animal, a dog she had already named Pop, a retriever, and a hunter-gatherer in her wildest imaginations. By “show,” this meant that the fun was already cancelled and long off the air. For an hour, Sammie pushed her baby carrots around but took a bite out of the small chicken squares her mother had sliced from the longer frozen strips. Millie sat at the table with the girl and ate her own food though, no doubt about that, neither had reason to negotiate. Sam, for sure, was not planning on changing her position. She thought in her devious little head that a tantrum might be the answer, but it wouldn't work cause Millie wasn't budging either. They kept their cruisy blue eyes on each other and took their bites with precision. When one grabbed the fork, the other did too. When one pushed the well-seasoned gravy sauce around, yes. When one searched for a splash of red wine, no, but there had to be some apple juice somewhere, definitely, maybe, we sure hope so. And bedtime? That was awful too. Telling her daughter to brush her teeth and hair was a certified no go. The order didn't register. So when Sam finally climbed into her bed, Millie did the same, albeit only one of the two had bad breath and naps to back. The mother didn't care to survey the scene before leaving, either. She was in bed and that was good enough. Only, it really wasn't.
The rolling hills on this plot was a mighty fall scene, especially when the trees and shrubs altered their hue. A favorite was the fiery orange, or perhaps it was red, or maybe both colors sufficed, anyhow, it was B-E-A-Utiful. The night was no different. Even the grayish blackish shadows of the moon could not hide the acres surrounding this land, blessed with great vegetation and animals too, given from another mother and another father and the government who declared all this to be legal and true.
Millie was comfortable underneath four fills of dark satin sheets. Her spine curved to the shape of the pillows placed behind her backside while another spine rested in her callous hands, those of an odd wrinkly texture, with names on the side, none on the front and stories towards the center.
She was like a fat old hog climbing a Himalayan mud mountainous paradise where the air was thin but the challenge was a force that could keep any brave soul alive. She read:
“But kids don’t stay with you if you do it right — The better you are, the more surely you won’t be needed in the long run.”
Those words were highlighted in pink.
Millie had never been to Oklahoma. Neither has she ever met or seen a true blooded Cherokee. But these words were her newest voice of reason. First The Bean Trees, now Pigs in Heaven. For days, Millie was stuck on this particular page. Tonight was the night she decided to trudge along. She finally found the time.
Outside, the faintest breeze christened the master and the clock ticked quietly to the left. The shapes were devoured; the text stood no chance. Zone and twilight, long past 12, into the next day, something was set to change.
Millie was most entrenched the moment she turned and heard a terribly loud scream.
In honest dismay, she slammed the book down onto the springs and stomped towards the child’s pepper pink room.
“What’s with the holler,” Millie said, matter-of-factly.
“A roly mommy! Get it! It’s right there!”
The child pointed to the floor.
“Wow,” said the mother. “God.”
And with one more stomp, the pest was crushed between her exposed feet. Not another peep was heard from the girl. Only the vents made a sound and a squish may have jumped from the floor.
Sam looked to her mother with praise for the job well-done. Millie, however, walked away with her book in hand, got back into bed, and shut the pages and her eyes for good. And the moment she was ready to enter any stage of R.E.M., her daughter was heard again.
“Goodnight Mommy,” spoken loud and proud, the last night before Sammie would enter her very first day of school.
Act II: Needle
It’s hard to know who woke first, Sam or Millie. Both headed downstairs at the same time, one on foot, the other using her behind.
When Millie rose from her cell, she found pages of Pigs tilted on its head. Another set of pink was highlighted:
“No matter what kind of night you’re having, morning always wins.”
Well, that better be true, she thought, in more of a confession she felt was due.
By the time Millie stepped out of the bathroom to make eggs and toast and pancakes for now, and a sack lunch for her love later, Sam was already dressed, admittedly in a costume unfit for a princess’ first day. Her dissatisfaction with the wardrobe decision was already on her face. Sam could smell it.
“Eat your food and head back up stairs quick so I can change you.”
Sam did as she was told.
The daughter sat on her mother’s bench while a fine bow was chosen to dazzle the stained strands. Sam’s hair resembled champagne. The chosen cloth was red, blood red, and so was the little girl’s button built dress, with all the frills needed for the inception. Millie could not bare the charm. Her Sam, annoying ass Sammie, she thought, was leaving her for the big real world. She held the girl in agony and told her hundreds of times that she loved her and loved her, and adored her, and she would miss her even for those few hours she would spend writing her name down in crooked shapes, and throwing food at the boy or girl who may later become her mate, one final embrace from Millie to her innocent sweetie pea, Sammie.
“Mommy, it’s here!”
“I know. We’re going.”
And they went.
“I love you.”
“I love you too Mommy,” holding an index and middle finger, symbolizing a pair.
Then Millie plopped her daughter up onto the stairs, black with a few yellow lines like the bus that magically appeared. Sam took her small legs and made small steps up, said hello to the driver, and sat in the open seat behind him. No doubt, Sam had to be number one in the front, the earliest of them all, on her first day of this extraordinary spectacular event, the most important thing that has happened to her in her five long years of life.
When Millie met Harry, he jabbed at her from every angle, and like a stiff boxer blow to the dome, the lasting effects weren't immediate. But in time, the body would crumble, then the mind, then the soul.
Arm veins gashed from open wounds. An itching hot fire encases the skull.
Shhhhhh. Keep quiet. It’s time to shoot.
And when that moment comes, make sure the pigs ain't around. The only red you want to see is when it swells up, blazed, and bleeds.
On the low, it’s mad cheap. Contact your local service provider for more info. Pass the pot, skill it, and boil the powder to a cruel brown liquid. Don’t forget to toss the bag. Be careful. That’s the incriminating evidence. But in reality, the detective doesn't need any sort of physical proof. Why search for a ratty paper bag in the slums of a rat hole when he has you!
Let’s all clap for the ghost of the former Millie, the mother, the addict.
While hunting for her next hit, on an afternoon where she left her daughter alone at home, Millie met a boy who told her that Harry was the greatest man he’d ever met. This child, who refused to offer his real name, said he was introduced to Harry on the streets. From there, the affair took flight from first class seats.
Millie understood the premise, but she could not truly relate, for her experience with Harry was not born from the tunnels. Rather, the pain was induced by an onslaught of other vices that diseased her. One after the other, the floods came and Millie was ruined. And when times get desperate, and the mind needs a fix, one decision leads to the next and, well, nothing becomes too extreme. For some, the skin sells, split and torn. Others may get in the “game” themselves, succumbing to sell. In any case, a choice has to be made.
All else had already failed for Millie. She needed this to live. So she traded Needles, ironically, for needles, a mark of the beginning of the end.
Waiting for Sam to return unleashed every latent demon, making it harder to let go. Fortunately, Millie’s seven hour daydream, the last remnants of an awful Monday afternoon, were over.
That night, while Sam slept peacefully, without any fears or screams or pests on their way, Millie read:
“It’s monstrous, what one person will do to another.”
Or themselves, Millie thought, releasing a dull somber sigh.
Act III: Pop
Walk in, feel the excitement, the scent of success forms a mist. For the graduates, this is it. It couldn't be greater.
Four years, eight semesters, too many classes, too many tests, too much drama, but it’s suddenly over; and while a joyous sense of relief is all the more true, a chilling sadness occurs, the last day here, another first afoot.
Where will we be, an older Sammie thought, one year, two years, ten years from now? Chasing dreams? Getting married? Maybe. Only a fool would want to know. Wherever He guided her tomorrow was okay in her heart though. But today? Today’s a celebration for making it, doing extraordinary, exceptionally well thus far.
For whom the bell tolls, the victors, a small class of two-hundred eighty seven. Crowd the blues, tears all over the hall, parents and many more friends, speakers and honorary guests, administration, oh, how we love them, the president and many more who fall to his whim.
Those in attendance stood for the singing of the national anthem, an honored tradition, vocals from the school choir beautifully rung.
Next was the familiar hum, the university’s two-hundred years young tune. Then came the introductions, the main event, the queens and kings in their robes, tassels held to the right, soon shifting to the left. Cap and gown as it’s called, some with insignias from fraternities on their chests and arms, others with embroideries on their heads, which is what Sam did, a proud member of Delta Gamma.
The president opened the show with a few words, most of what’s expected, a calm vote of confidence for the kids now free, earlier than the rest, for this was the ever odd winter commencement. Two former students were honored. One, a graduate who needed assistance standing as she gave her “thank you’s,” and another, only he was a lot younger and darker. Both, however, expressed the same sentiment. They spoke about their memories as students, the happiness they felt while there, the professors who impacted them, risks turned to clever chances.
Fire, ready, aim.
To her fortune, Sam’s last name hovered towards the front, a graduate of the arts with a business minor to boot. She shook hands with the dean she knew well, then she received her degree from the president she didn't, nevertheless, the honor upheld.
One professor, Ms. Gee, couldn't help herself. She sat behind the special guests. Like a rabid white rabbit, she leaped from her chair and gave Sam the greatest hug she’d ever receive. Sweet Ms. Gee was very proud, indeed.
Later in the evening, Ana’s family treated Sam to a delightful meal in the city. Sam ate a french dish for the first time in her life, although she didn't enjoy it so much.
Ana’s older brother and younger sister, Todd and Grace, were the only people Sam knew well enough to carry on a conversation. The mother and father were nice, but she never felt all too comfortable around them. Their conversations usually consisted of investments and savings, two things Sam didn't mind learning for a grade, but in the real world? Not a chance.
Sam thought she could go the whole dinner without saying very much. Ana knew this, she was fine with it, so she did all the talking, all the dreaming, and all the yapping.
Questions and answers waved it’s way from their ultra thin lips like an air raid refusing to cease till dawn. On and on, they wanted to know, what’s next, graduates, where do you go from here?
“I have a job for this marketing thing,” Sam said.
“In the state?” replied Ana’s father. The talk of business made him grin.
“Of course.”
“You didn't want to leave too soon?”
Sam hesitated.
“That, and I can’t afford to leave yet.”
Mr. Daniels simply nodded to concur. He wished his own daughter had the same outlook too.
Three and a half years ago, in an old dorm which no longer exists, the newest freshman class, including Sam and Ana, wrote letters to themselves that would be opened on the evening they graduated. Most students had to wait an extra semester. These two, however, had already jumped ship.
Ana wrote her manifesto fairly quick. The tip of the number two pierced the leaf; she didn't even bother to set it down and think it through.
Sam, on the other hand, took hers seriously, an opportunity to rid herself from the worst.
Ultimately, when all the wine was gone, the friends agreed that it was finally time to open their letters, the last step needing completion. Sam reluctantly handed hers to Ana first. She wanted to read it aloud. Her vitals were vibrant. But after the first line, written in a very dark blue pen, Ana knew she would leave the letter to mind.
“Mom, I really miss you…”
