a little vignette scene I wrote in my diary dec 2020, that i rediscovered today and thought i would share, bc to appreciate past creations is the only appropriate way of moving forward, making something entirely new
A woman crossing the street, wearing denim, a black matte puffer, and a purple scarf carries a toddler on her shoulders. The toddler is wearing baby blue snow pants and a red corduroy jacket. The woman holds the baby’s feet and looks ahead, focused. She walks slowly, but with strength, clearly conscious of how the little one’s body rattles and jiggles with every movement of her shoulders. Step.. after step.. after step.
The toddler grasps a ball of white string in his ruddy hands. The end has become unraveled, and the cord trickles down the mother’s slightly moving shoulders, straight back, down past her butt, her hips, her trudging feet and knees, and falls into the street. It doesn’t stop there. The white thread drags a good seven feet behind the cautiously packaged duo, ivory colored yarn standing out starkly against the grey, brown, muddied cobblestone.
It’s unclear if the mother is aware of the flowing porcelain string of precocity in which her child is so engrossed. As Fey passes, she imagines some unsuspecting pedestrian walking on a perpendicular cross street, texting, who unwittingly stomps on the string, like some doomed cartoon character in a comically large puddle, tripping the mother, sending the baby backwards, hitting hard on the sidewalk, disturbing this perfectly heavenly equilibrium they had going for themselves on this gloomy grey Tuesday morning. But there is no one else in sight. Fey passes them, mother trudging, child still coddling the string.
And she continues with her day.