on open-ended questions

A woman sits on a city bench. “Spare some change?” she says, as passers-by pass by.

A man in a suit zags in her direction, digging into his pockets. “How much do you need?” he asks, rattling around his change.

“ . . . Uh, five dollars?”

from opposite ends of life

Melissa and I are having a bite to eat, the babies asleep in their car seats. At a table near us, two older gentleman have been keeping up a conversation at a good, healthy volume: old friends determined to maintain their gift of gab, despite a loss of hearing. Having finished their meal, they start making their way to the door, the ambulatory one pushing the other’s wheelchair. Their faces brighten as they approach us and our piles of babies.

“Oh!,” says the one on wheels, visibly excited. “There’s TWO of them! Are they twins?”

As I explain that they came from different owners, the twosome peer into Owen’s car seat, both craning to get a good look through their thick glasses.

“What’s the name?” wheelie asks.
“Owen,” Melissa says with a big smile.
Wheelie leans in close. “MAUREEN?” he shouts, to confirm.
“O-WEN,” Melissa says in his ear.
“HELEN!” he says. “A beautiful name! So how old is baby Maureen?”

Melissa does her best to respond with appropriate volume and the necessary hand gestures to illustrate ten weeks. Owen hardly notices, but the two gentlemen coo like a pair of pigeons over his tiny face. Eventually, they pull themselves away and wish us well, wide smiles on their weathered faces.

Henry and baby Maureen

ode to a baby

A bit of talcum
Is always walcum.

--Ogden Nash