Not what, whom. A theologian.
What’s a theologian?
O, a guy who tries to understand how God works.
How does he do that?
He spends a lot of time alone thinking about it and trying to talk to God.
Why?
So he can explain it to other people.
What did he say about it?
That God can’t save you.
From what?
From yourself whatever. Nobody can save you, that’s what he said God thinks.
So what good is God then?
Good question.
When I grow up, I’m going to be a theologian.
Okee.
(pause of some days . . . )
I found out that prophets are the boss of theologians.
[lol] Really? How’d you find that out?
I asked somebody, he says. So I’ve decided I’m going to be a prophet instead.
Okee.
Can you transform this for me?, he asks, plunking down one of the toy-banes of my existence.
O shit, I haaaate transforming these damn things.
Nobody can save you! ha ha
TJ got sick going into the holiday. There are certain things to do. I like the doing. They come home, the cleanliness and order of which is doubly pleasurable when they feel crappy. TJ goes to the couch, waits for the pillow, leans over, gets the bendy straw and the extra cartoon network. Ears, because he’ll get extra television without fever-deserving it [yet?], goes and sits at the kitchen table. I write word problems that feature words he finds funny. He works them out, says “You can’t really take a fart back.” I put the slow cooker on w pot roast, the smell all day helps appetite. I give TJ soup. He says, seriously, “I love soup.” Nap time. Ears gets to play computer, TJ goes down, I lay next to him and read more and doze, listening to his nose clear. When they go to bed, the living room pillows and blankets go into hot water, windows cracked to air the room. When it all passes, all the bedding goes through hot water and the floors get mopped down with a tablespoon of bleach.
The curtains are always clean. The cupboards stocked with the known favorites, never out. There is always butter. I know what to do, what to give, how much of it and when.
In terms of adults, though, it’s like a person who has been paralyzed flexing her toes. Better than not at all, but awkward and with discomfort. What takes shape in dark corners is an absence I often can't quite make out.
