Today's writing

Ruth expected dropping Lennon off to be a task, crying and clinging in all kinds of creative ways, screaming at the top of several peoples’ lungs. Instead he hopped out of the car as if he didn’t have tear streaks the width of highways across his cheeks. Mama, he said, and grabbed his lunchbox. Let’s go.

She looked after him as if she had been given an entirely new child. What Ruth perhaps forgot was that toddlers are famously like the Midwestern weather. If you don’t like it, wait five minutes.

He charged down the rock-strewn path, his little feet pounding with certainty. When he reached the front gate, he looked at her: Okay, Mom. You’re needed here. He was an entirely other child from the one in the car, the one with a screwed-up red face, the cries that could rock a country. How could they do this, the personality do-si-do, and how was one expected to put up with it?

At the tingle of the gate, Carol Vulture appeared. She was anywhere between 50 and 70 years old, and if anyone was going to ask for more specifics it wasn’t going to be Ruth. Carol was the kind of woman who held her ground and brooked no argument. Her nose was angular, her hips wide, and she’d been at the helm of this place a long damn time.

Did you brush his hair?

Good morning, Carol.

He has beautiful long hair and it’s kind of a mess, Ruth. I say this because the kid can barely see through his bangs. You know?

Ruth did know. She’d wanted to cut Lennon’s hair for months now, but Gary got that face when she suggested it. She wanted to tell him that their kid wasn’t Samson, that he would survive a little trim, but to do that felt tantamount to breaking her husband’s heart.