When, at the end, the children wanted
to add glitter to their valentines, I said no. I said nope, no, no glitter, and then,
when they started to fuss, I found myself saying something my brother’s football coach
used to bark from the sidelines when one of his players showed signs of being
human: oh come on now, suck it up. That’s what I said to my children.
Suck what up? my daughter asked, and, because she is so young, I told her
I didn’t know and never mind, and she took that for an answer. My children are so young
when I turn off the radio as the news turns to counting the dead or naming the act,
they aren’t even suspicious. My children are so young they cannot imagine a world
like the one they live in. Their God is still a real God, a whole God, a God made wholly
of actions. And I think they think I work for that God. And I know they will someday soon
see everything and they will know about everything and they will no longer take
never mind for an answer. The valentines would’ve been better with glitter, and my son
hurt himself on an envelope, and then, much later, when we were eating dinner, my daughter
realized she’d forgotten one of the three Henrys in her class. How can there be three Henrys
in one class? I said, and she said, Because there are. And so, before bed we took everything out
again—paper and pens and stamps and scissors— and she sat at the table with her freshly washed hair
parted smartly down the middle and wrote WILL YOU BE MINE, HENRY T.? and she did it
so carefully, I could hardly stand to watch.   Copyright © 2019 Carrie Fountain. Used with permission of the author. | 
