I’ve got to tell you, it’s not the last time that will happen. I saw that little girl laughing wild one moment while you chased then turning on you eyes full of fire. The moment when that happens is not something I can teach you. The tipping point from joy to rage is, in some women, the width of a head of a pin.
I will never be able to explain at what point you will know that recovery is impossible, gravity has triumphed and the only option you have is to fall with grace.
I don’t think I will be able to explain to you the subtle change in a strawberry that turns it from the sweetest delight to rot. You will learn by sampling many and you will learn how the texture changes, how the smell shifts. Today, after few sips of smoothie you left the table and came back refusing to have more. You’ve tasted sour milk and anything left behind is ‘old’. You know already how distasteful warm milk is on the tongue.
I drove past an elementary school today and my stomach jumped into my throat. It can be ugly there. You will have to learn for yourself how fast the economy of cool can shift. Learn what darting eyes mean and feel the sting of a conversation intruded; the function of which is to tear you to shreds.
Choose wisely then, son of mine, which fulcrum you place the lever of your life. And remember, wherever you tip, I’ll be pressing on the other side, doing my best to lift you out of the dirt.