A woman should know better / than to crow the glories of her son-in-law, the builder, John, Lea's husband, so successful, building Kinko after Kinko after Kinko, so many Kinkos in so many places, adding miles and miles of frequent flyer credits, so many, they vacationed in Cancun, and all for free, including tickets for -- so lucky a woman -- to come out, all the way to Chicago, where awaits their child, John and Lea's child, waiting while they work, work, work to keep up with all those free miles, and the places like Cancun, just calling for them. Sometimes she goes, Lea does, when he builds the Kinkos, just to build those miles, so she comes, the woman, to watch the boy, her daughter's boy, so fortunate that Lea stays home with him, that all those Kinkos bought the house in Evanston, six maybe seven blocks from the lake, and they could leave that downtown high-rise, Magnificent Mile or no, there were bumps in the hardwood floors and cockroaches glided across them despite John being so good, so good at building, building, in State after State, until Kinkos stole him, stole him away from Blockbusters, who had put him in Chicago, and that high-rise. And so Lea left the woman in Portland, and all her friends, who were not supportive, not supportive at all when she left teaching for John and Chicago and the child and the Kinkos, thanks to friends who are there for her, happy for her, like the boss who might have begged her to stay but told her he was proud, proud that she would stay with the boy, such a well adjusted boy, he'd go to anyone, and always laughing, not like whiny children who always seem to be sick or cranky, but then Lea had a schedule, everyday a play date here, a lesson there, hardly any reason for the woman to be going there -- she laughs -- the child is so very busy but every night, every night there are cuddles and books, cuddles and books, precisely at 7:15, when John may or may not be home from that new office just five minutes from O'Hare, where he is right now, why waste an opportunity when just a call and he'll come pick up the woman, who left the long awaited spring sun and over-due warmth of Oregon for a rainy week in the house so near the lake, with the happy, busy boy while John and Lea catch up, catch up on all those free miles, they've worked so hard, to just throw them away.
This woman should know better / than to press hands against her ears, as if thumbs, jammed tight inside, could block the cries and questions of a child who asks and asks and asks, what is it, what is it, just listening, hearing from two seats up, that's what he's saying, a constant intonation, hammering, hammering, while his mother does not satisfy, or likely even hear, until he gives up prodding for all out indignation, which she's also used to, albeit we are not, we are not amused, we are questioning, questioning airline policy that does not require such droning creatures to be loaded down below. Let the dogs ride coach and curl up quietly in the seats surrounding, so close.
A woman should know better / than to travel in black leggings, stretched too tightly across a wider than advisable posterior, despite long legs and sophomoric blondness that might distract the eye if not, if not for what is underneath, the white Calvins I presume, as she bends over barely one foot from one's face, presenting the pentimento of black upon white that rivals only the disturbing notice of an elder man's shiny pate, upon which two long gray tendrils lay flat, held by hope and hair gel.
Once again, the sad endings of those who too easily fly.
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