Dearest Christopher,
I’ve always loved your unfiltered perspectives. Without fail, you have a way of saying aloud what everyone else is actually thinking.
Here’s the story that comes to mind.
The long-melted ice lay flat and flecked in the sweaty glasses like the last undesirable sip. I emptied each one into the porcelain sink, rinsed it, refilled it with ice from the growling, clunking ice maker, and finally filled it, this time, with water. The punch was long gone after so many refills.
I glanced at my watch: 11:30. Five-thirty in the morning was going to come very soon.
But the volume, the storytelling, from the living room was unremitting and undiminished. The flow of verbiage bounded through the house like an untamed mountain creek in springtime.
Christopher, you twirled and leaped behind me around the kitchen, bowing and bending, muttering indecipherable words and grunts under your breath. Suddenly you stopped at my elbow.
“Mom! These people…” you began.
“Sh!” I tried to hush you, but it was already too late as you blasted out your perspective at 900 decibels.
I’d worried about you earlier in the day as we prepared a feast for company. You’d seemed especially antsy, with lots of running, flapping, and bowing.
“Christopher,” I prepared you, “we’re having company tonight. They’ll be coming for dinner, and we’ll be eating quesadilla burgers.”
“Oh, we’re having company,” you repeated to the porch rail behind my shoulder.
“We’re not going to do lots of running while they’re here,” I went on.
“Oh, why can’t Christopher run?” you asked the porch rail.
“Sometimes company doesn’t know why you’re running, so it’s best not to do it the whole time,” I explained, though I was actually more concerned about the conversations you always carried on with yourself while you were running.
I wasn’t overly concerned. The couple had spent many years in Latin America and seemed the easygoing type. They were new friends, eager to get to know our family and church community. Unfortunately, we hadn’t really had a chance to prepare them for your situation, and during that season, that preparation was often needed.
Our family of nine pulled the extra leaf into the table, gathered long-leaf pine chairs and a bench around it, and dug into the quesadilla burgers. Banter passed back and forth as our new friends, Harry and Lisette, filled every lull with hilarious stories from their globe-trotting life—their children, their dog, border crossings, and adventures from years overseas.
Upon their arrival, Lisette greeted each of us with a kiss on both cheeks. Her graying hair was pulled back in a knot, and her eyes seemed to smile all the time. When she reached you, Christopher, you leaped backward, threw your arms behind you, and stared at her with your dark eyebrows raised so high they disappeared beneath your bangs. Smiling, I quietly stepped in front of you to receive my greeting just as she reached over to pinch your younger brother Nicolas’s cheek.
Otherwise, the evening went off without a hitch…
…until it didn’t.
I’d never heard so many stories in one evening! These people were funny! As we wandered down the winding pathways of their memories, we visited the schools their children had attended, their pet poodle back home, their children when they were young, a war they had been caught in…
The clock worked its way around hour after hour, and I began to wonder just how long they intended to stay as it crept closer and closer to midnight.
The sound of Texas cicadas reached through the windows, closed tight against the summer heat. Still the stories rollicked on.
Must be Latin culture, I thought. I’d have thought that at their age they’d be ready for bed.
I’d refilled the glasses six times. The last cookie crumbs had long since disappeared from the platter.
Repeatedly, you sprang from your chair, dashed behind the couch, and ran back and forth a time or two with a quick bow, your lips moving, fortunately without any audible sounds. I knew you were desperate to run. I’d lean forward to catch your eye, shake my head, and you’d reluctantly collapse back into your chair, rocking back and forth instead.
Finally, you followed me into the kitchen as I filled the glasses once again.
“Mom!” you bellowed. “These people are staying way too long! Why are they talking and talking and talking and talking? They are too loud!”
“Christopher!” I gasped.
The chatter in the living room stopped instantly.
“Oh, no.”
I peeked around the doorway.
Every eye in the room was already on me.
Then we all burst into laughter until we wiped tears from our eyes. The tension disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Harry stood, stretched, and grinned at you.
“Well,” he said, “I guess Christopher has spoken.”
Then, pointing toward the door, he laughed again.
“We’re leaving now! It’s the Latin culture coming through, but we like a man who speaks his mind.”
And just like that, they gathered their things, hugged everyone goodbye, forwent the kisses on your cheeks, and disappeared into the warm Texas night.
I smiled at Dad as you dashed into the dark for a little running before bed.
You had simply said what the rest of us had been thinking for the last hour. You were honest enough to say it out loud.
Love,
Mom
Dearest Christopher,
I’ve always loved your unfiltered perspectives. Without fail, you have a way of saying aloud what everyone else is actually thinking.
Here’s the story that comes to mind.
The long-melted ice lay flat and flecked in the sweaty glasses like the last undesirable sip. I emptied each one into the porcelain sink, rinsed it, refilled it with ice from the growling, clunking ice maker, and finally filled it, this time, with water. The punch was long gone after so many refills.
I glanced at my watch: 11:30. Five-thirty in the morning was going to come very soon.
But the volume, the storytelling, from the living room was unremitting and undiminished. The flow of verbiage bounded through the
house like an untamed mountain creek in springtime.
Christopher, you twirled and leaped behind me around the kitchen, bowing and bending, muttering indecipherable words and grunts under your breath. Suddenly you stopped at my elbow.
“Mom! These people…” you began.
“Sh!” I tried to hush you, but it was already too late as you blasted out your perspective at 900 decibels.
I’d worried about you earlier in the day as we prepared a feast for company. You’d seemed especially antsy, with lots of running, flapping, and bowing.
“Christopher,” I prepared you, “we’re having company tonight. They’ll be coming for dinner, and we’ll be eating quesadilla burgers.”
“Oh, we’re having company,” you repeated to the porch rail behind my shoulder.
“We’re not going to do lots of running while they’re here,” I went on.
“Oh, why can’t Christopher run?” you asked the porch rail.
“Sometimes company doesn’t know why you’re running, so it’s best not to do it the whole time,” I explained, though I was actually more concerned about the conversations you always carried on with yourself while you were running.
I wasn’t overly concerned. The couple had spent many years in Latin America and seemed the easygoing type. They were new friends, eager to get to know our family and church community. Unfortunately, we hadn’t really had a chance to prepare them for your situation, and during that season, that preparation was often needed.
Our family of nine pulled the extra leaf into the table, gathered long-leaf pine chairs and a bench around it, and dug into the quesadilla burgers. Banter passed back and forth as our new friends, Harry and Lisette, filled every lull with hilarious stories from their globe-trotting life—their children, their dog, border crossings, and adventures from years overseas.
Upon their arrival, Lisette greeted each of us with a kiss on both cheeks. Her graying hair was pulled back in a knot, and her eyes seemed to smile all the time. When she reached you, Christopher, you leaped backward, threw your arms behind you, and stared at her with your dark eyebrows raised so high they disappeared beneath your bangs. Smiling, I quietly stepped in front of you to receive my greeting just as she reached over to pinch your younger brother Nicolas’s cheek.
Otherwise, the evening went off without a hitch…
…until it didn’t.
I’d never heard so many stories in one evening! These people were funny! As we wandered down the winding pathways of their memories, we visited the schools their children had attended, their pet poodle back home, their children when they were young, a war they had been caught in…
The clock worked its way around hour after hour, and I began to wonder just how long they intended to stay as it crept closer and closer to midnight.
The sound of Texas cicadas reached through the windows, closed tight against the summer heat. Still the stories rollicked on.
Must be Latin culture, I thought. I’d have thought that at their age they’d be ready for bed.
I’d refilled the glasses six times. The last cookie crumbs had long since disappeared from the platter.
Repeatedly, you sprang from your chair, dashed behind the couch, and ran back and forth a time or two with a quick bow, your lips moving, fortunately without any audible sounds. I knew you were desperate to run. I’d lean forward to catch your eye, shake my head, and you’d reluctantly collapse back into your chair, rocking back and forth instead.
Finally, you followed me into the kitchen as I filled the glasses once again.
“Mom!” you bellowed. “These people are staying way too long! Why are they talking and talking and talking and talking? They are too loud!”
“Christopher!” I gasped.
The chatter in the living room stopped instantly.
“Oh, no.”
I peeked around the doorway.
Every eye in the room was already on me.
Then we all burst into laughter until we wiped tears from our eyes. The tension disappeared as quickly as it had come.
Harry stood, stretched, and grinned at you.
“Well,” he said, “I guess Christopher has spoken.”
Then, pointing toward the door, he laughed again.
“We’re leaving now! It’s the Latin culture coming through, but we like a man who speaks his mind.”
And just like that, they gathered their things, hugged everyone goodbye, forwent the kisses on your cheeks, and disappeared into the warm Texas night.
I smiled at Dad as you dashed into the dark for a little running before bed.
You had simply said what the rest of us had been thinking for the last hour. You were honest enough to say it out loud.
Love,
Mom