The boy is 6 now. He is small for his age, but that's okay because it only means there is more to be explored without having to leave the house. Couch cushions can become forts, and tile floors can turn to lava that can only be crossed by a laundry basket boat. The boy is 6 now. A towel can be a cape or bat wings or a cocoon or anything you want it to be.
At 3:28pm, the school bus stops at his street, and the boy gets off the bus with Jennifer. Jennifer is 7 and loud and sometimes lets the boy play with the fuzzy gorilla keychain attached to her backpack. Jennifer’s mom waits for them. She always wears T-shirts with cat illustrations and smiles a lot. The boy likes her voice. Jennifer’s mom holds her hand and walks the boy back to his house. She waves good bye and the boy goes inside.
The house is in a row of houses that look almost exactly the same. That row of houses is surrounded by other identical rows of houses. These rows of houses keep emerging until they suddenly stop, and then there is nothing but a farmer’s field. The boy’s dad says that someday they will build more rows of houses on top of that field, and maybe even further. The boy has a reoccuring nightmare where they start building rows of houses on the streets between the rows of houses. In the nightmare, the boy is first happy because he doesn’t have to go to school since the bus can’t get into the neighbourhood, but then he begins to panic when he looks out the windows and can only see bricks. The boy screams when he realizes that he is stuck.
The boy’s dad loves to count. He sits in his office all day and plays on his calculator. Sometimes he watches baseball on TV when he is tired of numbers. The boy isn’t allowed to touch the calculator, and he doesn’t understand baseball. The boy’s dad frowns and squints a lot. His hairline is receding into a widow’s peak. He reminds the boy of the Count from Sesame Street, only less funny.
The boy’s mom is on vacation. She went to the beach because she loves the ocean. He can’t remember when she left, and knows not to ask his dad when she is coming home. His mom used to sing while she cooked dinner and laughed at everyone’s jokes. She had a hard time throwing things out, even when they were old or useless or broken. The boy has never been to the beach before, but in his school journal, he drew a picture of him and his mom playing together at the ocean. His teacher said it was a really nice drawing, and the boy felt bad because it was a lie, and his mom had always told him that lying was bad.
The boy tiptoes past his dad’s office. He tries to be as quiet as the prowling lion that he saw on Animal Planet. He crawls up the stairs and into the spare room, which is used as a junk room. Overflowing boxes are piled upon bins and laundry baskets full of folded clothes, but the boy knows exactly what he is looking for. A light blue shoebox is stuffed sideways into a crevice in between two towers of giant boxes.The boy carefully slides the box out from it’s slot. He sits crossed legged on the small area of floor that hasn’t been covered, removes the elastic band that holds it closed, and opens the lid. He takes off a layer of white tissue paper, and gently pours the seashells from the box onto the hardwood floor. He flips them over like puzzle pieces, and lines them up, smallest to biggest, in a circle around him. The boy picks up the littlest shell, and pops it into his mouth. He likes to suck on it and imagine that he can taste the salt water. His favourite shell is a smooth white one. Sometimes he closes his eyes and rubs the smooth shell up and down his cheek.The boy picks up the shell directly in front of him. He holds it up to his ear. His mom taught him this trick; if you hold a shell up to your ear, and really listen, you can hear the ocean. The boy closes his eyes tight and concentrates. He hears waves softly lapping against the shore and the cry of seagulls. The boy trades this shell for the next one in line. He feels the sand under his feet, and the wind rustling his hair. Next shell. Dolphins are jumping and playing in the water. He hears his mother laughing. Next shell. The water is so clear that he can see schools of colourful fish darting through branches of coral. The water is cool on his skin, but not cold. Next shell. His mom is laughing again. She is so happy to be here. Next shell. How can the sky be so blue? Next shell.
“What the hell are you doing?” asks the boy’s dad. He is standing in the doorway.
The boy opens his eyes. He doesn’t look at his dad. His dad doesn’t like it when he touches the boxes.
“Listening to the ocean?” the boy’s dad guesses.
The boy doesn’t look at his dad.
“Well, you aren’t going to hear it that way. Do you want to know what the ocean really sounds like?” his dad doesn’t smile.
The boy looks up.
His dad bends down and picks up some of the shells in his hands. He looks at them for a second, considering, before forcefully throwing them against the floor.
The boy shuts his eyes. He sees and hears the monstrous waves crashing against the jagged rocks. The ocean foams at the mouth, and the wind blows sand and salty air into his eyes. Where is his mom? He can’t hear her laughing anymore.
Eyes open. The boy tidies up the mess. He finds the pieces of the smooth shell and pretends to be a doctor as he tapes her back together. The boy doesn’t know what time it is, but he feels tired, so he tucks himself into bed. Eyes close. Downstairs he hears his dad crying and talking on the phone, saying “The boy is only six”. The boy rubs the smooth shell slowly up and down his cheek. He hopes that he doesn’t have the nightmare again. He wonders if Jennifer will sit with him on the bus tomorrow. The boy is only six.
At 3:28pm, the school bus stops at his street, and the boy gets off the bus with Jennifer. Jennifer is 7 and loud and sometimes lets the boy play with the fuzzy gorilla keychain attached to her backpack. Jennifer’s mom waits for them. She always wears T-shirts with cat illustrations and smiles a lot. The boy likes her voice. Jennifer’s mom holds her hand and walks the boy back to his house. She waves good bye and the boy goes inside.
The house is in a row of houses that look almost exactly the same. That row of houses is surrounded by other identical rows of houses. These rows of houses keep emerging until they suddenly stop, and then there is nothing but a farmer’s field. The boy’s dad says that someday they will build more rows of houses on top of that field, and maybe even further. The boy has a reoccuring nightmare where they start building rows of houses on the streets between the rows of houses. In the nightmare, the boy is first happy because he doesn’t have to go to school since the bus can’t get into the neighbourhood, but then he begins to panic when he looks out the windows and can only see bricks. The boy screams when he realizes that he is stuck.
The boy’s dad loves to count. He sits in his office all day and plays on his calculator. Sometimes he watches baseball on TV when he is tired of numbers. The boy isn’t allowed to touch the calculator, and he doesn’t understand baseball. The boy’s dad frowns and squints a lot. His hairline is receding into a widow’s peak. He reminds the boy of the Count from Sesame Street, only less funny.
The boy’s mom is on vacation. She went to the beach because she loves the ocean. He can’t remember when she left, and knows not to ask his dad when she is coming home. His mom used to sing while she cooked dinner and laughed at everyone’s jokes. She had a hard time throwing things out, even when they were old or useless or broken. The boy has never been to the beach before, but in his school journal, he drew a picture of him and his mom playing together at the ocean. His teacher said it was a really nice drawing, and the boy felt bad because it was a lie, and his mom had always told him that lying was bad.
The boy tiptoes past his dad’s office. He tries to be as quiet as the prowling lion that he saw on Animal Planet. He crawls up the stairs and into the spare room, which is used as a junk room. Overflowing boxes are piled upon bins and laundry baskets full of folded clothes, but the boy knows exactly what he is looking for. A light blue shoebox is stuffed sideways into a crevice in between two towers of giant boxes.The boy carefully slides the box out from it’s slot. He sits crossed legged on the small area of floor that hasn’t been covered, removes the elastic band that holds it closed, and opens the lid. He takes off a layer of white tissue paper, and gently pours the seashells from the box onto the hardwood floor. He flips them over like puzzle pieces, and lines them up, smallest to biggest, in a circle around him. The boy picks up the littlest shell, and pops it into his mouth. He likes to suck on it and imagine that he can taste the salt water. His favourite shell is a smooth white one. Sometimes he closes his eyes and rubs the smooth shell up and down his cheek.The boy picks up the shell directly in front of him. He holds it up to his ear. His mom taught him this trick; if you hold a shell up to your ear, and really listen, you can hear the ocean. The boy closes his eyes tight and concentrates. He hears waves softly lapping against the shore and the cry of seagulls. The boy trades this shell for the next one in line. He feels the sand under his feet, and the wind rustling his hair. Next shell. Dolphins are jumping and playing in the water. He hears his mother laughing. Next shell. The water is so clear that he can see schools of colourful fish darting through branches of coral. The water is cool on his skin, but not cold. Next shell. His mom is laughing again. She is so happy to be here. Next shell. How can the sky be so blue? Next shell.
“What the hell are you doing?” asks the boy’s dad. He is standing in the doorway.
The boy opens his eyes. He doesn’t look at his dad. His dad doesn’t like it when he touches the boxes.
“Listening to the ocean?” the boy’s dad guesses.
The boy doesn’t look at his dad.
“Well, you aren’t going to hear it that way. Do you want to know what the ocean really sounds like?” his dad doesn’t smile.
The boy looks up.
His dad bends down and picks up some of the shells in his hands. He looks at them for a second, considering, before forcefully throwing them against the floor.
The boy shuts his eyes. He sees and hears the monstrous waves crashing against the jagged rocks. The ocean foams at the mouth, and the wind blows sand and salty air into his eyes. Where is his mom? He can’t hear her laughing anymore.
Eyes open. The boy tidies up the mess. He finds the pieces of the smooth shell and pretends to be a doctor as he tapes her back together. The boy doesn’t know what time it is, but he feels tired, so he tucks himself into bed. Eyes close. Downstairs he hears his dad crying and talking on the phone, saying “The boy is only six”. The boy rubs the smooth shell slowly up and down his cheek. He hopes that he doesn’t have the nightmare again. He wonders if Jennifer will sit with him on the bus tomorrow. The boy is only six.