With
one supporting pedal flat to the pavement’s edge, Brother Skunk props his
bicycle up in front of the house and pulls from off its rack a skinny cardboard
shoebox. He sits down in the nascent warmth of Easter’s sunshine and the bright
fragrance of his mother’s garden’s flowers from amongst which she stands from
stooping to arch the morning’s toil from her back before joining him on the
kerb.
Mother:
What did you get then? I hope they’re
Skunk
was busy lifting a pair of tennis shoes from out the slim white box.
Mother:
Oh Skunk, they’re not even waterproof. What good are
Skunk:
I’m happy.
She
turns one in her hand as her son laces the other in earnest.
Mother:
And what about your ankle? How’s that
Skunk:
I’m happy.
In
her understanding is the disappointment of knowing she can weight him to return
the shoes for something more appropriate, or remove herself to allow him this
happiness he deserves.
Mother:
Okay, alright... I’m happy too.
now
threading the lace of this one for him.
Mother:
Just don’t... Oh look, rain never did anyone any real harm, did it?
He
stands on one leg for her to slip the flimsy plimsoll around the awkward angle
of his foot.
Mother:
You go on...
tightening
the bows
Mother:
..go bouncing.
She
stands aside to watch as he remounts his bike and cycles away from the house,
fettered yet even in new shoes.
