On Means to the End

Pooh-bear The table is round and small. The chairs are plentiful, and the tea is as marvelous as the emperor’s new clothes.  The other guests include a superhero, a bounty hunter, a silly old bear with a bit of stuffing loose around the ear, and a sheriff. His plus one is a space ranger. I am a spoke in the wheel and the table is spinning accordingly. Some montages move slower than others. The passing of time is implied.

There are no biscuits or cheeses or cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. I’m allergic to cucumbers and the hosts know it. Also, they aren’t allowed to use a knife. Besides, this isn’t a tea party. Children have more sense than that.

This is a meeting and there are big boy topics on the table. This is a conversation with children about things that children shouldn’t talk about. In a room full of make-believe, the words from my lips seem the most unbelievable of all. They float off in cartoon balloons and pop on things like BAM! and POW! and the daggers from my eyes.

The boys have parts snips and snails. They are puppy dog tails, which, I’m fairly certain, is cruder than the moment calls for. Their attention is apt and always fleeting. They are golden brown with beach tans melting into the stubborn linger of dirt and midday fudgesicles.

Their guests are polite and stoic. I talk too much and wear my heart on my sleeve. This is probably the best way to describe me in any given situation.

They do not comprehend the gravity of it all, but they understand that things go up and that things often fall. They are also aware that bumbles bounce.

The tea is delicious and goes to my head. The room spins like a top.

They take my words as so much love, and what they make mends me where I am loose with stuffing. It is a thing far greater than equal.



This post first appeared on DadCentric in 2011.

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