Last night I awoke to the sound of merriment. I glanced at the clock. It was after 11 p.m. and my daughter and four of her old friends from Hawaii were in the living room capital LOL-ing.
It's weird how some sounds can be so familiar, you know. So vaguely familiar that over time you forget you haven't heard them in a while.
By familiar I mean, familiar--like straight, pure laughter that only people who went to the same elementary school can share. People who understand what's it's like to dance May Day together on the PCC stage and the Christmas program at the Cannon Center. People who know what it's like to run without shoes and to study without textbooks. Who understand the causes and effects of No Child Left Behind and SFA and History Day and PAL basketball and cockroaches and head lice and SPAM and humidity and racial tension and Principal Voorhies.
People who were all lulled to sleep each night by the same ocean, over and over and over again until it became part of the rhythm of their life.
What a treat to be reminded, by the simple sound of laughter, that you have people. People that you once shared a culture and history with!
One of those people was our next door neighbor for 10 years. I know this kid like the back of my hand. I heard every word he ever said. And every word that his mom ever yelled at him. That's how close we were.
Yes, it's Martha's boy!
Yet guess what! I don't really know him at all. I didn't know he could dunk the basketball, or that he likes fish, or that he can do a double French twisted love knot on the tramp
(Okay, these pictures don't show the full extent of his talent, so use your imagination.)
For the record, he isn't really this short. And my boy isn't really this serious.
But yes, my girl really is this beautiful.
Martha, I've got your boy'z back now! Backatcha for all the times you had my kid'z backs.