from Blue Suede Pumps and Red Hot Candy
…My daughter wants to know where my guitar
is. I say it’s in the shop. She wants to know if it needed new strings.
I have never lied to her. I have edited and rephrased and considered her age
and steered conversations, but I have never perjured myself to her. I wonder
if she can sense my dilemma, if this is a new way for her to love me by allowing
me to keep my pride. She looks at me for a long moment, as if it is on the tip
of her tongue to inquire further, but deciding she does not like the flavor
of this conversation she turns away. She has that same look of distaste on her
face from when she ate some cinnamon candy red hots at the age of five. They
were mixed in with her Halloween loot, and watching her little machine-gun tongue
spitting them over her lips like tiny red bullets made me laugh till I couldn’t
breathe. I felt like a heel for laughing, but her expression was so funny, her
outrage over this betrayal, this hot stuff mixed up with her candy.