When the adults ask him questions about what he values, the boy makes flippant remarks. He doesn't like how they want to sit in judgment over his words and pick apart the things he holds important. He deliberately gives them nothing of value.
They receive love, or something like it, only when serving their parents' shortsighted and limiting needs.
A plate of puffy chocolate cake floats around the room. With bits of cake indented and crumbling, we know the kids have gotten to it first.
They send me a gift card with money from their own account. It's a lovely gift, and it reminds me that they aren't little kids anymore.
A dinner that's more like a joust, the guests having a go at each other across the length of the table. All in good fun, they claim.
The delicious crackle of a pan filled with pepper steak and mushrooms.
As I get older, my relationship with my religion becomes more like an invigorating wrestling match. And sometimes like an expedition.