CLEO OPENS DOORS
When Torch runs his dump truck across the playground his legs clap up like scissors. He’s fast but he’s also leggy. He runs it up the hill. It outruns him back down.
Cleo just wanted to open and close doors today. She’d hold the golden knobs and say ‘ope’ and I’d twist them for her. She’d shut me out, then—through a window—ask me to open the door again. The tiles in the hallway were cold. I wanted to be in the kitchen with my friends. It got better when she shut us outdoors. A mild day. Walnuts were spread to dry. I sat on a bench and basked in detachment – the grey cat hiding under me, the children screaming at it with delight.
My friend had whispered to Cleo, ‘It’s fun closing doors isn’t it?’ I fawned, imagining this to be life guidance, but I couldn’t illustrate the idea. When we all did end up around the morning tea, I served Cleo cream several times from the bowl we’d collectively hand-whipped. Torch also wanted just dollops of cream on his plate. Cream is loveable!
In the afternoon, at home, I brought in the deckchairs before the rain fell in. While Torch modelled and Cleo cut into playdough, I stood at the kitchen bench and peeled the rolled oats paper bag into small strips for the compost. The heat pump ran.
Seven year old Benny, when my parents began grace, “Do you believe in Christians?!”
“Shh,” said his parents.
Cleo lets me brush her hair and fit it into a pony tail.
TORCH PLAYS THE PUPPY
Torch plays the puppy. He names himself Tigerollo, obviously making it up, looking askance and slowing to add syllables. Tigerillo? I ask. Tigerollo, he repeats. And Cleo? She’s a kitten again today? No she’s the baby and you’re the mummy. Are we dogs? You’re people. I’m the only puppy. He whines in his basket. This is my goal: by the time Cleo weans, I’ll have regained the spirit to join in. How do I currently play the mummy? I lie on the deck and drop a ball into an upturned hat. It’s something the puppy can do too, with his floppy paws. Torch plays limp. He throws the ball weakly, as a puppy might. He needs to be a baby. Later of course he’ll tune the radio to something harsh and dance around like a rockstar, and I’ll be a good sport and join in, till something distracts him and I switch the radio off at the wall.
At the playground. Coming down the slide, a kid loses a shoe. At the bottom of the slide she picks it up and calls to her brother, “Hey can you help me get my shoe back on?” As he rushes to kneel at her feet, Cleo, still holding her doll, approaches. (This is an inside joke for all who know Cleo loves putting on shoes.)
Eating celery fronds on the bus. Trying to identify the flavour. Metallic? Bitter.
Angela Trolove 