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.
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."