The Biggest Fear

She's five now, but we haven't had enough time to realize how much she knows. She's almost four feet of feelings, but we forget. Like this afternoon, when I shouted to The Partner in his home office about the nearby shooting in which at least nine people were killed.

"The guy killed nine people," I shouted. "Did you know?"

"Yeah, I heard that," he said.

I went back to the Hartford Courant article laid out on my computer screen. I read about the disgruntled employee of the largest Budweiser distributor in the state. He was, allegedly, a "disciplinary problem." I didn't hear The Boss come up behind my scratchy swivel-chair on wheels.

"Tell me it's not coming here," she said.

"Tell you what's not coming here?" I asked, hoping she was talking about something different. She does that a lot. But she looked at me knowingly. Then she pulled her hand across her throat, pointer finger out, making a sucking sound as she did it.

I stared.

She did it again. Finger across the neck. The sucking sound.

"No," I said. "It's not coming here."

***

Several nights ago, apropos of nothing, The Boss said to me: "Why wouldn't I love my mommy?"

(See, I told you she does this; she brings things up out of nowhere I can see.)

"I don't know. Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I'd be dead."

I have words, but with her I can't always summon them. I said "oh."

"But you're in luck, 'cause I love you."


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