Last night on earth

I’m listening to U2. Haven’t in a while. Listening to U2 is not unordinary. I like them. I’ve seen them. I’ve met the Edge. He signed my copy of Achtung Baby. But I forget sometimes how songs, left unheard, can remind you of an earlier moment during which you heard the song.

We went raspberry picking yesterday, the four of us. I think this outing may have been the first time the four of us have done something as a family since I told Holly I had no interest in moving to California. Avery tells me every day that Holly is mad at me, and yesterday, she amended his statement: Mommy is just frustrated with daddy. We collected one pint of raspberries, which, given the rash of hot days lately, was probably more than we should have been able to collect. We went for blueberries, but they were burned and shriveled and hard. I have a flat of blueberries in my refrigerator. Costco. Those blueberries are not burned and shriveled and hard.

Avery begs for what he wants, and when he doesn’t get it, he pouts, cries, or says: I’m mad at you. Sometimes, I ask him why. Other times, I say I’m mad at him, too. I did that yesterday in the car, coming home from raspberry picking. After the first couple of times of saying I was mad at him, he started saying he wasn’t mad at me, and then he started to cry.

I forget that he lives with his heart of his sleeve, and that he puts his feelings out there, possible bruising be damned.

I forget that last year, in the fall and winter, I watched his fearlessness and the way he recovers from unhappy accidents and bittersweet compromises, and I thought that he had much to teach me.

I forget that he is only three (almost four). He is my best friend, and he understands (or seems to) so much, and so I forget he is still becoming, and I treat him instead as if he’s become and is fully formed. Just short.

And later, when Avery asks for hot dogs and blueberries, and when Aurora asks for milk or something else suitable for a baby, there will be much eating and dancing and music.