ANY TUESDAY
Time has gossamer wings, oft times filled with cement. It flies silently in circles. All hours, all days are a merciless merry-ground. The white wooden horse I ride on goes up and down, up and down. On the rare evenings when my special horse is angry, doesn't hear the tinny music, he refuses to move. I get off and change to a brown bronco bursting with energy. Buster is the name I have given him as I have to hold tightly to the metal bar that lets us move in unison with other horses or fall off, maybe to my death.
It matters not to me that during summer I am usually the only adult rider. More than once a parent has asked me to switch animals. His crying child wants mine, just my white one. 'Sorry,' I say. 'He may have it any time except six to seven on Sundays.' The fathers get riled up. The mothers accept the way it is and pull their children away from nasty me.
I ride and dream as I recall Eddie Cantor's radio show and his closing melody. My mother and I always sang it together. 'Each Sunday night, I spend an hour with you. From friend to friend, I'm sorry it's thru. Let's make a date for next Sunday nite. I'm here to state 'twill be my delight.' Mother would turn off the radio, hug me, give me a glass of chocolate milk and send me to bed.
The 'then was then' has messed up my 'now is now.' All Jimmy and I had together was six lovely, happy years. Without him I will curl up and die.
He lives within me. I see his emerald green eyes, feel his small soft hands. My Eddie outwardly has conquered most of his grief, has packed Jimmy's clothes, toys, books and taken them to the Federation Re-used Shop to be sold for a pittance. I don't understand why Eddie has never asked me where I go every Tuesday evening yet am glad he hasn't. Most likely he would try to stop me and I don't want to be stopped.
The air is misty, damp. The merry-go-round is not filled. It creaks, shakes a little. I jounce. My hand slips and I fall, bump into the empty swan's big wooden wings and probably have bruised my shoulder.
Jimmy calls me. 'Mamma, don't cry. Let me kiss it, make it all better.' The shoulder pain is insignificant. Feeling Jimmy fall off his horse brings a torrent of tears. The film is clear. I lunge to grab hold of his foot before he slides off the carousel and is dragged until the master of the turning zoo jams on the brakes. It is too late. My son is dead and I killed him.
He lives within me. I see his emerald green eyes, feel his small soft hands. My Eddie outwardly has conquered most of his grief, has packed Jimmy's clothes, toys, books and taken them to the Federation Re-used Shop to be sold for a pittance. I don't understand why Eddie has never asked me where I go every Tuesday evening yet am glad he hasn't. Most likely he would try to stop me and I don't want to be stopped.
The air is misty, damp. The merry-go-round is not filled. It creaks, shakes a little. I jounce. My hand slips and I fall, bump into the empty swan's big wooden wings and probably have bruised my shoulder.
Jimmy calls me. 'Mamma, don't cry. Let me kiss it, make it all better.' The shoulder pain is insignificant. Feeling Jimmy fall off his horse brings a torrent of tears. The film is clear. I lunge to grab hold of his foot before he slides off the carousel and is dragged until the master of the turning zoo jams on the brakes. It is too late. My son is dead and I killed him.
A bit of sanity clears my vision. The master asks me if I am hurt. Stupidly I tell him,' No, I don't think so.' He hands me his card and a large role of tickets. 'Bring the neighborhood children any evening.' That does it!
I blurt out, 'Thank you, but I have outgrown the horses. This is my last Tuesday ride.'
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