Coming In Like a Lion...

L.W.,

The wheels on the bus go round-and-round.  That's what they do.  Round-and-round.  Round-and-round.  And when they do, your eyes turn to mine and you just stare at me. 

Watching.  

You stare while the wipers go swish-swish-swish.  You stare while the doors go open-and-shut.  You stare while the windows go up-and-down.  All through the town.  You stare.

If I'm lucky, the first crack comes while the people on the bus get off-and-on.  You blink, and those eyelids hitch the tiniest bit on their way back up, and I know I have you.  But there's still more staring to do.  

After you learn about each and every component of the bus, we go the bribery route.  Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird.  A diamond ring.  A mirror.  And on.  And on.  And on.  After purchasing you every conceivable item known to man, I decide to give up because every single thing has some freak tragedy befall it.  Whoever heard of a mockingbird that won't sing?  Those things never shut up!

At this point, though, you're starting to fade.  Those eyes are still big, and they're still staring, but your breathing is deep and you're blinking more often.  And you're not even concerned with looking around for Callie the Cat anymore.  I pull out my hole card.  

The states and capitals.  

The capital of Florida is Tallahassee.  And the capital of Georgia is Atlanta.  And the capital of South Carolina is Columbia.  Up the eastern seaboard, all the way to Maine.  Then skipping over to Wisconsin, across the Great Lakes to Michigan, then to the Ohio Valley.  The Southeast.  Once we get west of the Mississippi, I snake my way up and down each row, reciting each state and its accompanying capital with a cadence that hasn't changed in seven months.  My eyes are drooping when we reach Mountain Standard Time, and by the time we roll through Olympia, Washington, my head is lolling and my voice is no more than a whisper.  I finish up with Alaska and Hawaii and I look down and I am met with a sleeping little boy.  Mouth agape.  Pacifier perched precariously on your chest.  Snoring so softly and sweetly that it should be called something else.

Out.  Like a lamb.  

I love you, Cooper.  Good night!

B.W.