Wednesday, July 13, 2011


The trains go rumbling by, and Jude and I are right underneath, me sitting behind him with my arms around his waist. He hears them long before I do, and announces they are coming with the flapping of his hands.

In front of us is the park. I used to take Sage and Jude here when they were small, and the people there now with their kids remind me of my former self, all smug and superior with my high parenting standards and brand new double stroller. They talk to their children in a way that tells me they read a lot of parenting magazines, and it makes me smile to myself. I like not having to do it just right, and enjoying what is.

Behind us is the dog park. The owners in there sound very much like the parents across the way. I am not sure what that means but it makes me smile, too.

It is a sweltering July evening. It reminds me of Alabama, all humid and green, and I can smell the grass and Jude's hair and I am overcome, but not sure why. I squeeze him tight and say, "When I was a little girl I lived in this place called Alabama and I had a dog and a yard and I would run around and look for bugs, and I was sad, very sad because I didn't know God would give me someone like you…." and I stop, realizing Jude doesn't understand, as far as I know, or maybe he does.

"This is the part of the day that is just for you," Jude says, and I know exactly what he means. The train comes and we can feel the rumble, inside of us and on the sidewalk where we sit, under the big metal tracks, with grass all around, so close we are like one person, with no need for words, just this part of the day, just now.