Each one is a dry scale, slowly building up to a skin to be shed.
Childish dreams, naive concerns, unrealistic expectations. All synonyms for an optimism deemed foolish in hindsight. These are the things that used to matter.
I try to control them. I tell myself I’m not alone in that. If I am right, it was out of hope, not insight. What did I shed first?
When I was five years old, I remember wanting to be the nicest. I wonder if it was out of competition? Or is that a man projecting flaws onto a child’s actions? Does it matter? A kindergartener lacks the tact for an ulterior motive.
In kindergarten, if there was a birthday, someone would bring in a snack for everyone. On each in class birthday, I would only eat half of my snack. A brownie is what comes to mind at present. Half would be eaten. Not just eaten. Savored. Appreciated. Sugar is so good when you’re five.
The better the snack, the less I wanted to finish it – and this brownie was perfect (as all brownies are at that age). A single bite was life altering. Pure joy, I’d even claim.
To keep that joy from someone else would be… unfair? Right? You always share if you can. You have to. More than that. You want to! As I grow older, I think about how much the line has blurred between “have to” and “want to”.
It was the same dilemma on each birthday. Everyone in class had already gotten their brownie, teacher included. This joy couldn’t be shared. They already had some! So into the napkin it went, folded neatly to ensure it survived the walk home in the lunchbox. Lucky for me, it was the squishy kind of browny. It wrapped very nicely, sticking to the napkin just the right amount. No crumbling! Thank goodness.
I wonder if anyone noticed me putting it away? Surely my teacher did. I wonder if I tried to hide it when I did it each time. I don’t remember. Was I proud? Shameful? Or was I altogether too young to even know these feelings? There I go, projecting onto a child. I need to stop. This was a task, plain and simple: share the brownie.
I would walk home fastest on these days. Excitement can be overwhelming for a child’s walking pace. Legs churn no matter the heat or the fullness of the backpack. The only reason to slow down was to check the lunchbox. Losing the brownie would be unthinkable.
Mom always met me part of the walk home. Sometimes she’d be waiting at school. Sometimes she’d be closer to home. Always, though, before the big street by the bridge. Cars go fast there.
This particular day, the brownie day, she met me about ¼ of the way home, at the entrance to the big field where fireworks were set off on the 4th of July. It usually had a lot of dandelions, too. I liked that.
I was always overjoyed to see Mom. She was the best! Today, though, I was extra excited. Too excited to talk – or listen.
I was never good at answering “how was your day”. I’m still not, actually. If she asked me, I didn’t hear it. There was one thing on my mind. I spin out of my backpack and place it gently onto the ground. Out comes the lunchbox. My mom has seen this scene before. You wouldn’t know it, though. I love her for that. I unzip the lunchbox. There it is, the folded napkin. The brownie inside feels undisturbed. Still squishy!
“I saved you some of my snack!”
_______
This is the best I’ve ever felt. This is a thing that used to matter. I wish it still did.