Charlie Monologue

Imagine a playground. Imagine children, laughter. Imagine a young mother resting on a park bench, breathing in the sun-warmed air. Her son, Charlie, is giddily running up the plastic steps to the slide, his purple cap a flicker among dozens of sparkling faces.

“Mommy! Look at me!” he cries as he whizzes down on a bumpy ride into the sand below. The mother gives a barely audible wave to show she’s paying attention.

How much Charlie has grown these past few years! The mother disbelievingly shakes her head. It seems only yesterday he crawled out of his crib and took his first steps on small shaking legs into the dim kitchen. What about that time when his teeth sprouted and he bit into his first apple? The hardness of the food reflected shock in the toddler’s eyes and he spat it out, bawling from surprise. The woman smiles at the memory.

The C was facing the other way and the A sagged down, but the cuteness of the act warmed my heart.

Memories keep swirling in the mind, distracting from the now. Where’s Charlie? There he is, building wobbly fortresses in the sand pit.

Speaking of fortresses, it’s soon going to be Charlie’s sixth birthday; she needs to bake him a cake before it’s too late. What should be on the shopping list? Flour, eggs, six candles. . . . The mother heavily sighs. How on Earth can I bake this cake in private? Charlie for sure will find me out if I’m not careful.

“Mommy!” the shout abruptly snaps her back to the present