Molehill

It should have been nothing. It wasn't even dark yet and we were tying our sneakers and strapping our sandals to our feet. Mostly little feet. We gave the ball back and said thank you. Then one got on her scooter, one pushed a pink stroller and the other was in my arms as we walked the few blocks back to "safety."

I had three missed calls. I got three more as I walked. And before we reached "safety" Grapo Peet showed up slow and lurking in his shiny, white Toyota. Be Careful. It's dark. Don't go so fast down the hill. Stay together. Keep off the curb. Look both ways. Hold hands. Don't. . .

I wanted to cry, scream, shout at him; tell him that I felt belittled and untrusted. I wanted to calmly swallow my pride. Take the emotional slug to my gut and wash my hands of the day. I wanted to confront him and speak my mind. Even if my voice shook. So I sat there, and waited for his return and just before my fingers had tapped out their last drumming rhythm on the table I watched the lights reflect off the kitchen window, signaling his return. I was silent as the door opened. My mind was still debating its decision, deliberating my place.

I spoke. I told. I shook.

As I drove home my chest was heaving as I tried to swallow all that I had just said. I tried to keep the raging sea deep in my belly, rather than letting it lap up my sides and onto my pillow, but when my feet touched the carpet in my room I knew I needed solitude. Solitude to let myself spill and gush and flood and stream and burst. I was a tempest. And I received comfort like cold porridge.