Rocky Memoir

Rocky Mountain Memoir
When you were small, just up to my hip, we took a walk hand in hand down Banff Avenue. We were content to be in each other’s silent company. Interesting store fronts caught our attention and the sugary sweet smell from the Candy Shop wafted gently down the street. Snuggled into my chest was your two-week old sister Skye. She slept soundly and sometimes you reached up to stroke her tiny foot as if to make sure she was okay. The Body Shop looked inviting and we had another half hour before meeting your mother, so we went in.

New babies and little boys always attract salespeople’s attention and we were warmly greeted.

“Excuse me ma’am. How old is your baby?”

“Two weeks,” I replied. While the age I gave was correct, there was a degree of a lie embedded in it. While neither of you were actually mine, I was with you enough that it felt like you were, and treated you so.
“How beautiful your children are. How old are you little man?”

“Almost four, “you replied. Then, I was offered a complimentary hand massage. Even though I felt guilty for accepting an offer that was really meant for a new mother, how could I turn that down? While my hands were massaged, I glanced over to see if you were all right. In one hand, there was a black pencil-sized tube. In the other, a long mascara brush. Mesmerized with curiosity, you slid the brush upwards to your cheek and brushed it up and down, gently painting soft black tracks. It must have felt pleasant as you gave the other cheek the same treatment.

The time came when we had to leave to meet your mother. You found a small mirror next to the rows of eye make-up and looked in it, satisfied with your masterpiece. Reaching for my now-relaxed and conditioned hand, you walked out proudly with me to show your creative work to the world.