She is the Sane One Who Chooses to Skip

I scowl against the phone, threaten his answering machine, idly, because what leverage do I really have in February when the plowing bill's paid but the plow won't show? I have a too long drive and a too slow shovel, and he has a truck--and my money. I hang up, heart beating fast and angry at the driveway covered in three day old snow, at the undelivered mail, at the dark basement and the landlord who still hasn't called the electrician.

He bounds by in a blur, my son, skipping the route that's bound to crack a head. Or two. Because there goes the little sister, and I doubt you could call what she's doing skipping. But there they are, circling wild and wide, as if they've just been told an extraordinary piece of good news.

The next time round the couch Caed shares his secret, breathless. "You know what my favorite thing is? Skipping! I skip everywhere!"

Pausing, panting, he turns to me and waves arms wide. "Sometimes, when I'm sad, I just skip and it makes me happy. It's like joy, like you know, how you choose it!" He lifts up elbows and skips away.


So. If you see an old lady skipping, red hair flying, waste to ankle in chocolate brown corduroy, bright striped scarf flapping rebellion against winter's earthen pallet. If you see her and wonder whether the world's gone mad, then wonder no more.

It has.

But she is the sane one, who chooses to skip, chooses the ridiculous and exaggerated celebration of nothing in particular. Who chooses joy.

Who chooses to be mad--not at the plow guy--but with wonder.

I'm not there yet. Not yet the sane one. But so help me I'll get there if it's the last place I ever skip....


Linking with Emily today for Imperfect Prose.

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