Yesterday, my shirtless son was telling me a story in the kitchen. He talked and talked. His friends and brother were outside. I was facing what was left after the four of them had made their own lunch and “cleaned up.”
The counters shone with dried blobs of plum-jelly leavings, squished grapes, a blue sugary powder of some sort, and various unidentifiable crumbles. Clean up was obviously an attempt and not necessarily a success.
I righted sticky glasses tipped in the sink. He talked and talked. I spilled cold ramen soup down my leg on the way to the dishwasher. He talked and talked. I stepped on hard-boiled eggshell bits left on the floor by him-truly. He talked more.
He became enthralled in his story and gained rhythm and momentum. It spilled through his body like a tumble of heavy water and he gushed on, each verbal story detail punctuated with a palm-push off the counter, a rock back on his heels and a bump back into the counter.
He did this again and again as he spoke. I began to wipe the counters, my arm pushing hard in circle after circle, each growing wider than the last until I reached the counter’s edge. At exactly that moment, he pushed back hard off the same edge, unaware of my hand in his way. He smashed the inside skin of my finger, leaving a take-your-breath- away painful cut.
“Can’t you ever hold still?” I yelled at him, sharp, mean. I didn’t know until after I said it that some part of me wanted to push back in a way that would halt him cold, speechless, quiet. If he would just stop talking, and ask nothing of me, I could be alone in my weary head.
What I did was cruel.
My son lay very low and moved out of my way like fog in sudden sun. I shook my hand, examined the cut, and felt a tiny key lock snap open a box inside of me. It held a splinter of almost instant regret.
We all have our moments. But this moment is notable in its smallness. Sometimes small meannesses are even worse than large ones.
I felt ashamed. But,then I quickly protected myself by countering with a defiant stubbornness. Inside the box was also a curly wood shaving pile of excuses. I started with one at a time, picking it up, examining it: My hand was bleeding, I was tired, my head hurt, the kitchen was a mess. I droned on in my head endlessly, but it wasn’t enough.
How many times are we, fleetingly, so much less than we can be?
When is the last time you cut someone off in traffic or scared someone with an insistent and angry horn? When was the last time you took the last cart, or cookie, or pool chair and pretended not to look at someone waiting behind you? When was the last time you said no when you could have said yes? When was the last time you cut someone you love with words because you were tired, cranky, hurt, overworked and overwhelmed? Because you know they can take it is not a good enough excuse.
We can’t be happy or good or nice all the time. And I, for one, don’t want to be. But, Dear God, when I’m not happy or good or nice, let me at least note it. I always want to know when I’ve been a jerk.
When we stop noting the small meannesses, and when the regret doesn’t set in us like some bit of gray stone, that’s when we’re in real trouble. If we think “I’m so good,” all the time, we won’t ever try to be better.
The chance to take a deep breath, start over, and do better is radiantly generous and essentially necessary. Chances, lined up like slats on a whitewashed fence – one after another – are a gift.
I call my son back to me, say I’m sorry, ask him to story-on. He takes a big breath and begins to talk. And talk some more. I’m tired, the eggshells are still on the floor, and for a moment, all is right with the world.
E-mail Fort Collins poet and writer Natalie Costanza-Chavez at grace-notes@comcast.net. Read more of her essays at .
