Shots Across the Bow

Time to stretch a bit. The kids are all busy; playing, doing homework, watching TV, whatever. You've worked all day, came home, cleaned house, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, and now you are ready for your time. You sit down in your chair with your book that you're right in the middle of and begin to read. Instantly, all activity in the house ceases and a line of petitioners forms at your chair. Every child has just remembered something important about their day that they simply must share with you. You sort through their triumphs, tradegies, wins, lossess, needs, wants and desires, and slowly the line diminishes, until you are alone again with your book. You lower your eyes to the page, and get swept away.
It doesn't matter where. The old west, outer space, the ocean, the mountains, places you've seen, places you've seen only through closed eyes at one in the morning. New places, different places, different times, where your life is different, no regrets, no confusions, no messy areas, just neat little lines of words which fire your imagination to create things of wonder.

She clears her throat, delicately, letting you know she's still there. You missed one. One more request to fill. She's your little girl, so you lower the book, and she begins to tell you a Dickensian tale of sorrow and treachery and battles fought and won, until she finally gets to her point. She needs money for lunch tomorrow.

You hand her the change from your pocket, and, satisfied that you have done your duty, prepare to resume traipsing the world from the comfort of your recliner.

She clears her throat again. You ease your eyes up from the book, trying to show her that you are really wanting to read this one page, or maybe two, but she persists, and begins to explain all about her day, the boy she met, and the one she likes, and the girl she doesn't like, and how her friend made her feel silly, and whether she should go to the dance. You nod in the right places as her voice fades into the background, satisfied that you are doing your job, listening to her talk, but all the while wondering when you can get back to your book. Eventually she trails off, running out of things to say, and you mumble some vague reassurances, that people do like her, and things are fine, and of course she's doing well. She says OK, then starts to wander off.

You start to sink back into your book, pulling it around you, shutting out the messy world and locking yourself in with the rigid prose that sets your mind free to roam.

"Daddy?" she asks.

You slam down the book, glare over at her, annoyed at the continuing interruptions. Can't she see you want a little peace?

"What is it now?"

The hurt is bigger than her face, then anger flits across her face.

"Never mind!"

Instantly guilt consumes you. All she wanted was a little of your time, a little attention from the guy who hung the moon and stars, and you wanted to read a book instead. What kind of monster are you? You heartless bastard.

You soften your voice and ask again what she wanted, but the damage is done. Her feelings are hurt and there's a wedge between you that is your fault. She starts to go away, not crying even though she wants to, and that's the worst part, because you know she hurts, but she doesn't want to bother you any more.

You go after her, and catch her arm, and go to one knee, so she can look into your eyes and tell her you're sorry. She can see that you mean it and her smile comes back faster than it faded, and she clings to your neck, and you hold her for a minute, revelling in the easy forgiveness of a child. You ask her what it was she wanted to ask, and she says she forgot.

You growl good naturedly, swing her upside down and tease her about interfering with your reading, and get into a tickle fight that lasts until bedtime. The book lies forgotten on the table. It will still be there tomorrow, or the next day, and someday soon she won't be. And you realize that you don't really need a book to fire your imagination to create something wonderful. You've done it for real.