At Night
"Mommy, come rub me."
Henry
has trouble winding down at bedtime. He wants me to come to him, to get
in his bed with him, to rub his back. I oblige. I'm happy to; it's rare
that he'll stay this still for me, to let me be this close to him.
"Tell me the story about the two girls again."
This
is the story that my grandmother used to tell me, about the sisters,
Lucy and Laney, and their dog Snoonie. And how they went to visit
grandma in a snowstorm. And how they dug snow tunnels in the front yard
until they were frozen. And how they all went inside and grandma warmed
them by the fire, wrapped them in quilts, and made them hot chocolate.
Years
later, when my father died, I inherited his Bar Mitzvah photo album. My
grandmother went through it with me, pointing out the relatives. There,
seated at a round table, was Lucy. A young woman in 1956 with tanned
arms, a floral dress. I hadn't guessed that the sisters were actual
flesh and blood, my grandmother's cousins. Now, my grandmother gone, I
find her. I don't know who she's sitting with at the table, I don't
remember which one is her sister.
I tell Henry the story the best that I can. I know that it's changed since my grandmother told it to me. When I'm done, he asks for a story about animals, a story about Batman, a story about clocks. I do my best, and then I tell him a story about a boy named Henry. I let him fill in the blanks. Henry lives with his? "Mom and Dad." And his favorite food is? "Applesauce." And his best friend is? "Augie." And...and...and. And then we say goodnight, and I leave him.
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