SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue 1 - Journal - Page 76
it's another form of becoming. Who knows what I'll come home to find when she's a teenager.
They’re always turning into something.
***
The other administrative assistants at work are terrifically helpful when I'm a sloth. They're
twenty or thirty years older than me, and have Aspercreme in their desk drawers for days when
their joints act up. When I roll around in my wheeled walker they give me sympathetic glances
as if to say that my body should not be doing these things when I’m so young, but they ask
if they can get another cup of coffee for me, or grab that binder of papers from the shelf and
bring it to my desk. I never refuse.
***
Flirting with me is easy. All Jules has to do is start a debate over which kind of chocolate
chip cookie is best. It's a subject that doesn't matter and matters a lot, based on the heated
discussions I had with my brother and mom over soft versus chewy versus crispy.
“I miss the small, stupid things,” I tell Jules. “Like Mom getting mad at Ernie for snitching
too much cookie dough.”
“How’s he doing?” asks Jules.
“My little brother is always himself,” I say.
“He cooked a great turkey last year,” says Jules.
I say I'll pass on the compliment.
***
I didn't see my parents turn into anything before they died, and maybe that's part of the
problem. I wanted a sign of illness, the precious hint that something was shifting inside them
before I got a call from the hospital.
My kid takes transformations in stride. She doesn’t pester me when I'm a sloth, just gets
an apple and two cookies as her after-school snack and does homework. If I've rested enough
by dinner sometimes I can be my usual self. If not, Isobel makes macaroni and cheese. I tell her
to be careful when draining pasta. She rolls her eyes and says, “I remember.”
Definitely becoming a teenager.
On nights when we're eating with everyone else and I'm sacked out on the couch, she
goes to dinner and explains I'm not feeling so hot. Jules knocks on the door later to make sure
I'm okay. I say I'm fine, just a sloth.
***
It's hard to let people see you at your most vulnerable. Maybe Jules raised an eyebrow the
first time they saw my sprawled sloth self, but they've slept on the couch a few nights when I've
been aching badly, in case I needed help. Working at the hospital must have strengthened their
ability to go with the flow and shrug at all kinds of bodies. I need to give that same kindness
to my brother, even when he's hedgehogging.
Especially when he's hedgehogging.
It's easier to make allowances when he's not asking for money, but I assume his life is
more complicated than he lets on. I doubt he'll ever turn into a more talkative creature.
“You're a peach,” I say, hugging Jules when Isobel and I return to our side of the floor so
she can do homework.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Jules says, hugging me back and perhaps holding on
a bit longer than necessary. I grab the pasta pot and Isobel takes the empty baking tray. There's
never cheese bread left.
We find my brother on the couch, arms and legs crossed.
“The pasta smelled good,” he says like this is an affront. “Did you cook it al dente?”
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