Morning Memory

I grabbed my bag and coffee and another bag with a miniature Christmas tree—a present for a co-worker—and headed out the door. Charlie, who had but a moment before had been lying (fully dressed) under the covers, ran out and poked his feet into Jim’s shoes. “Stay inside with Dad, Mom has to go to work!” I said, but Charlie was already thumping down the stairs after me. I put my things into the black car as he stood, serious but faintly smiling, on the sidewalk.

Jim came down the stairs and I said good-bye. Charlie, disregarding of the morning cold in his short-sleeve black Puma t-shirt, scrunched up his shoulders, leaned forward a bit, and made some loud noise. The casual listener would most likely have presumed that someone was in distress. We knew that Charlie–who started to grin big in the midst of it all—was playing back some old scene, some still-present memory of seeing me or someone leave and him getting really, actually, very upset.

And now he was play-acting it all out, while calling out “Bye, Mom! Bye, Mom, bye bye!”

Charlie was scampering up the stairs with Jim following when I looked back.