Look at Me

January 8th, 2014

Look at me, I’m 5 years old, and I’m running around outside our little blue house in a fury of youthful energy.

Look at my sister and I, so full of smiles, and happy. Throwing cheerios at each other and laughing.

Look at us, pretending that our paper towel rolls are puppy dogs, tying strands of yarn to them, their leashes, so they don’t escape.

Look at me, looking out the window, waiting for dad to come home.

Look at me, I’m running around, excited and curious. I’m playing in a sandbox, making a world of my own.

My dad is driving up the driveway – back from work! Let’s run up to him and say something funny – that way we can laugh together.

Something funny – something funny- Here he comes, getting out of the car.

“Hey, kiddo.”

He gets out of the car, carrying his briefcase.

Look at me – Can I think of something funny to say? Probably not. Wait –

“Are you going inside to smell some feet?”

“What? That’s disgusting. No.”

That wasn’t funny. Look at me, I figured that out fast, right after he said “What?”

I’m wondering, lowering my head in shame, what I could have said that would be funny. I’m wondering if I could have said anything that could have made him laugh, made us laugh, together.

Look at me, I’m going back to the sand box, returning to the world of my own, the world that I crafted with sand and soot and sticks and stones.

But look.

In that world that I built in my box of sand, I don’t know how to make my dad laugh, either. I’m still wondering what to say.

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