Our first customer, a tree trimmer, pouring sweat from his brow at 9:30am under the shade of the store’s awning.
“Already cut a mighty big one down today, Ma’am,” he says, wiping his forehead with the front of his cap and settling it back on his head. “Lookin’ for more work to do now.”
I smile and wish him luck with his pursuits.
“What’re you girls sellin’ today,” he asks my daughters, using his crutches to move over towards the stand.
“Pink lemonade,” they chime in together. “Would you like to buy some,” Georgie asks, launching into her spiel.
He balances on one crutch to dig in his pocket.
“It looks mighty good, I think I will.” He pulls out two rumpled $1.00 bills and hands them to the girls. “Give me one can and consider the other dollar a donation.”
“A donation, Mama,” Hannah says as if he’s bought every last can.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” they tell him.
He beams and turns to go, one pant leg dangling empty from the knee.
Hannah grasps my arm, tugging it. “Mama, I hope his leg gets better, I really do. He was very nice to give us a donation.”
He hobbles to the parking lot, stopping to talk to another lady. I’m sure asking about the quality of her trees. I watch him run the can, cool to the touch from the ice chest, across his forehead as he listens to her.
I look down from him to Hannah’s worry creased face. “It’ll be just fine, sugar.” I watch the lines release into an open smile for me.
I wonder how much good I’ve done, am doing, for her future. It feels worth it for more moments with this innocent, untainted by the world smile.
Georgie who has already crossed over that line where she’s learned some things are never ‘just fine’ and that the world has dark, rotting corners that can’t be cured with fairy dust, stares at me as if I’ve gone daft.
“Half his leg is gone, Mama! Gone! It’s never coming back!”
I look from her to Hannah and back again. She drops it.
It doesn’t seem like the time to fill her sweet mind with possibilities of diabetes, cancer, war or accidents involving limbs that disappear, never to return.
But when is it? When do I break the hard, cold (albeit sanitized and age appropriate) truth of our world to this sweet child? How will I tell her that we don’t reach out to each other enough? That we often take what people give us and don’t handle it with care. That sometimes people stomp on you with intent? That she’ll often wish for her safe little nest of innocent ignorance.
How can I be the one to give her fear, even if it is truth to keep her safe? How can I take away the magic? I wish there was no edge to dangle from.
Just a few more years, I think...of Barbie dolls, Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy (who despite what Henry says, does not resemble a locust with sharp teeth instead of Tinker Bell) and Hannah Montana. Just a few more years, please...
