08-09-03 - 8:48 a.m.
in the beginning, when my relationship with patrick evolved from the prim professionalism of employer/employee to something more, something we tried for years to deny but finally couldn't, i found myself searching for a way to explain it all to my kid, my berries. she was going away for a week, the wife was going away for a week; the codger and i were determined to use the time to purge ourselves of what we believed was simply workplace chemistry.
think of it as candy, i told berries. skittles, maybe, but not a lifetime supply. just a trial sized bag.
wise beyond her years, she somehow looked past the immorality and understood. skittles became a playful, unspoken connection between my daughter and the man old enough to be her grandfather. she left small bags of skittles in his truck, his construction trailer, on his bedside table. he filled an antique glass bottle with skittles and held a counting contest; she won. as the relationship endured, the trial sized candy metaphor was supersized and like patrick himself, skittles became a household staple.
two nights ago, berries emerged from her room and caught me lost in wine and bad tv and loneliness. still wise beyond her years, she instantly read me.
you can't help how you feel, mom, she told me. no matter what, that old man will always be the one.
she pulled me off the couch, into her car, and in our pajamas, we drove an hour north to the track of homes that patrick is building. while i watched, giggling, berries dashed through the dark, haphazardly leaping gas line trenches and piles of dirt to leave a small bag of skittles on the steps of his construction trailer.
when he called the next morning, my heart raced at the sound of his voice.
i found skittles on my trailer steps, he said, and i still can't breathe.