Aug
Babysitting
by Tiffany Vakilian
It is a sparkling afternoon, with traffic heavy yet moving along. I get the call on the way and before I hear the voice, I know. The day becomes a cracked glass flute.
Jesse is his normal ebullient self, and I smile as many watts as I can. He climbs in his car seat, regaling me with his new friends and their antics at day care. Pandora plays Disney tunes and I hold crumpled tissue facades of interest and excitement. Picking up Rachel is normal on one side. Her little backpack plops its done day into the trunk of my Civic and she settles in her booster seat.
We drive away from the sun on Oceanside Boulevard as Rachel opens Pandora’s box.
“Father Po died this weekend Miss Carmen. It makes me sad”, she says. Jesse’s only understanding of death is his dog put down two months prior. His slight interjections of how he misses Pinky put me in a mode of remindering.
“She’s with you in your head.”
“But she’s not here.”
His tinny voice is plaintive; frustrated.
Rachel attempts to help, closer to his mental level and Pinky-love, but melancholy is smoke within the growing car interior as I drive. Did I do this to them? Make them mentally perseverate on the life transition of closely loved ones? Broken hearts in the car breed by association – a cave of innocent confusion and blast wave immediacy. I try to turn up Pandora and smile, my crumpled paper heart already ash, yet still holding my mind enough in check to signal, accelerate, brake, park.
Please just go take your showers.
Please just watch TV.
I text letters, numbers and punctuation and blink prayers for a good strong wall of normalcy to hold up for the next 35 minutes and God answers this prayer the way I requested.
No mysterious ways.
Mom arrives, relieving me. She walks me to my car, and hugs me. She cries the tears I cannot, in the absence of the children.
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https://awordwithyoupress.com/author/tiffany
Trying to explain loss while at the same time trying to understand it. Impossible and painful. That concept alone pushes this story over the edge emotionally. Fantastic write.
Thank you Jon. Truly.
The part about this story that sends me to the showers is the sensitivity, like the heart, worn on the sleeve. It amazes me when I think about a writer who can deal with universal themes through the smallest flower in the field. There is a growing in you, V, wonderful to see.
Thank you. It’s writers like you that make me want to dig deeper, write better. Humbled by your notice man.
Tiffany you are awesome. There is a challenge to write about loss for it is so hard to put into words exactly what the feelings are. However, you have come the closest I have seen in accomplishing this task. Heartfelt and beautiful.
Thank you Diane.
A pure joy to read. We have been Tifinized. Reminds me a lot of Anne Lamott.
Thanks Kyle!
I wish I were there with you to hug you <3
You just did.
Grasped the essence of loss and I now feel sad. The result of a finely written piece.
I totally understand how huge a compliment that is. I don’t even know how to take that. Thank you. Truly.
Pinky-love powerful potent pazow.
Nice:)
Practically. 🙂
To paraphrase Thoreau, “Women live lives of never quiet children.” To paraphrase Frankie Vallie, “Big girls don’t cry, but grandmothers do.” Let dead dogs and this story be remembered and please find time to cry.
I did. I do. I will. Thanks Parisianne.
Consternation of handling this stuff with little ones — well done.
Thank you so much Wendy!
I haven’t read anything so touching in so long. We love you so much Tiffany <3