Last Day of Vacation

It’s the last day of vacation. You can tell a little girl has been here. All you have to do is look around, the little lake cabin is covered in kid stuff.

There are tiny wet swimsuits, draped over chairs. Wet beach towels, over each bannister, each sofa, and hanging from the chandelier.

Enough floaty pool noodles to span the equator.

Dead Gatorade bottles. An army of crushed water bottles, half empty—or half full, as it were.

Popsicle sticks, stained blue and orange, fallen in the line of duty, adhered to the countertop.

An empty pimento cheese container, with houseflies socializing on the rim. A jar of pickles with no pickles in it.

An abandoned smartphone, in a girlie purple case, sitting in the middle of the den. Random toys, scattered.

Board games, stored beneath the coffee table, apparently put away in haste, with Monopoly money poking from the box lids. A lonesome pair of dice on the floor, just waiting to break someone’s C4 and C5.

And oh, the shoes. We’ve got shoes. Tiny girl-sandals beside the doorway, with slightly elevated heels. Water shoes, with bits of lake moss clinging to the soles. Tennis shoes with sweaty socks stuffed inside. And a host of other specialty shoes for females. There is probably a pair of shoes specifically designed for checking the mail.

A sunhat, soaking wet, hanging by its chinstrap over a barstool. Six different kinds of sunscreen on the kitchen counter. Count them. Six.

The labels say the sunscreens are “100% vegan.” I shudder to think of how many innocent vegans had to die to make this sunscreen.

Hair brushes galore. Heaven only knows why anyone would need more than one.

Tiny bottles of smell-good stuff, littering the bathroom vanity. Lotions, moisturizers, sunburn creams, ointments, and at least four products featuring aloe.

A conditioner bottle in the shower, which claims to smell like strawberry milkshake. Special lotions, scented vanilla and lavender.

Hair ties. Hair ribbons. Hair clamps. Barrettes, spring clips, snap clips, hair claws, bobby pins, rubber bands, scrunchies, side combs, bows, and ponytail holders.

A random pair of little-girl pajamas, hanging from a doorknob. A pink sundress, on a hanger. A child-sized T-shirt which says: THE WORST THING TO READ IN BRAILLE IS: “DO NOT TOUCH.”

A white cane with a red tip, leaning against the wall. A tiny purple hearing aid, charging in its case. A toothbrush for dental braces.

I spent the first half of my existence without children. And now there is a little girl in my life.

I am not qualified to be in a child’s life. I am not a good influence. Namely, because I haven’t figured out what the heck I’m doing with my own life. My most notable talent is making poot noises with my hands.

I have spent the last forty-odd years as a musician and a nameless professional writer. I spent decades waking up at noon, eating four-day-old pizzas for breakfast. I was a night owl and a full-time road warrior. I am immature. I am irresponsible. A child was not in my plans. But then, I suppose it’s true what they say. Man plans; God laughs.

I hope He’s having a good one today.