Broken Boulder potatoes

“Séamus, you are so funny,” the pale mother claimed with a titter, at him, but rather with him. Her littlest son was so good-natured and mellowed that sometimes she wondered if he understood how endearing his every action was; how sweet his words sounded to her ears. He was as free from sin and guilt as were the gods themselves, and without Oaxaca, spending time near the little cherub was one of her greatest joys. She relished in it, and wondered how long such innocent bliss would last.

The shakti woman wanted to coddle him and soothe his every worry and woe. Was that not what childhood was about — being free to frolic and believe in oneself with a gusto that was rarely reserved for adults, with their many anxieties and worries? Recent weeks might have been trials for the small family, but now was the time for gentle realities and bolstered confidence. She smiled sweetly. “These rocks are big now…  but one day, you will grow large, and conquering them might become your favorite thing.” 

“But, you know,”  she continued, sitting her haunches against the ground. “The gods say that earth is made of just one big rock. We will never grow larger than that.”   Would she ever really know the truth of this? No, but once when she was younger, a nascent Olive dug with all her might to locate the pit of the earth — she dug her paws into the dirt for hours upon hours, and by the time she had exhausted herself from her efforts, she had found nothing more than dirt and sheetrock. With a wry smile at the memory, seeing much of herself in her young son, Olive flicked her ears and gently chided “We must always know our place.”