Writing With Abandon

While on vacation, it’s hard to find the time to slice. I snuck away after dinner while my mom gets ice cream for my niece and nephew, who are watching college wrestling with my dad on the iPad. Maybe I can get a slice done now?

But our apartment is not very big; I’m in just the other room. I can hear my mom listing the flavors: “You can have mint chocolate chip, black raspberry chocolate chip…”

“Black raspberry what?” Emmie asks.

“Chocolate chip. Do you want to try it?”

My brain is tired in that first-day-of-spring-break way and that full-time-aunt-duty way. It’s a good tired. I know I’ll sleep well tonight. Emmie and John Henry are having a sleepover here to give my sister and my brother-in-law a chance to hopefully get some rest — that is, if my newest niece, 5-week-old Lucy, gives them an easy night.

I look back through my photos from today, thinking about the slices I drafted in my head. Can I get one done now before the kids come find me?

This could be a slice, I thought as I waited for the M79, thinking about how many times I’ve stood at that same corner in my life, watching for a glimpse of the blue bus come up over the hill.

“Is Tía Amy asleep?” John Henry asks my mom.

I flip to a video of Emmie kicking the soccer ball to me. Remember John Henry going over to some older boys from his school on the basketball courts as they argued about what game to play. I drafted the slice in my head:

“Stop yapping,” one of the boys says, trying to mediate.

One boy shoves another, then walks away.

“It’s just a game,” the mediator says, throwing his hands up.

“Baseball?” A fourth kid suggests.

“Yeah! I’ve got a glove,” John Henry says, just happy to play anything.

“Is Tía Amy trying to go?” He asks my mom again. “To sleep?”

Next I see a photo of Emmie on the swings. A video of her counting to one hundred. Ever the teacher, I had her comparing numbers and ordering them, from greatest to “middlest” to least. She was loving it.

“Where’s Tía Amy?” Emmie asks.

Or maybe I’ll slice about these post-it nails we made?

“I don’t know, go find her,” my mom says.

No time. Cue the stomps. Here they come!