Both Sides Now

“Are you comin’ to my game Saturday, Dad?”

“Ah. Sorry, champ. Remember that conference in Paris last month?

Milo looked up from macaroni that smelled of freezer.

He missed eating food off a plate. He even missed his mom haranguing him to finish his broccoli. At least that broccoli needed to be chewed.

“Well, that committee appointed me to go to Moldova. Pretty cool, huh?”

Where’s Moldova?

His father plunged his fork into one of the plastic tray’s compartments. Gray mashed potatoes peeled off in one congealed mound.

“But, hey, I’ll get you a souvenir. You can show it off at school!”

No one cares about airport trinkets.

“Who’s gonna take care of me?” 

Milo worried it’d be Ms. Kravitz again, the neighbor whose house always smelled like cat pee.

“Can I stay with Grandma?”

Dad swallowed slowly. Milo thought that maybe the mashed potatoes were gluing his throat closed, but his eyes watered.

Was Dad almost crying? 

“Uh, maybe, Milo. I haven’t called her since, well…”

His voice trailed off to almost an indistinguishable whisper. “…you know.”

They sat in a silence that felt like a headache hanging over the entire room.

Eventually, Dad got up. He picked up both trays and threw the rest of the slop in the garbage on top of the mounting pile of trays.

“Finish up your homework, slugger. I’ve got some work to do.”

Milo let out a slow sigh like a bike tire leaking air. He wanted Dad to throw the baseball, or at least help him with his math.

“Will you call Grandma?”

Dad’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

Milo tried to concentrate on his long-division problems but he couldn’t focus. He heard Dad talking in his home office but the words were somewhat muffled. 

Milo crept down the hall and pressed his body into the wall behind the door so Dad wouldn’t see him.

“Yeah, I’m happy to stay there as long as it takes. Actually, it’s better to be away.”

Silence. The other person must be talking.

Better to be away? 

“Great. Yes. I’ll put together some contingency plans and get some contracts going.”

This must be a work call, not a “Grandma call.”

Milo tip-toed back to the kitchen table to finish his math. The aged floorboards weren’t the only thing weeping.

Saturday morning, Dad gave an unemotional goodbye from the car. 

Milo dragged his suitcase up Grandma’s driveway, its flimsy wheels catching on every crack.

Grandma burst through the door in a velour jogging suit. Grandma always wore velour jogging suits no matter how hot it was. 

“Hiiii, sweetie.”

Milo loved that she called him sweetie. 

Dad called him Milo, or perhaps Tiger or Champ. Never sweetheart. Never honey. Never darling. 

He hadn’t heard “darling” in over a year. That’s what his mom had called him. 

Milo melted against Grandma’s waist. She smelled like a symphony of dish soap, magazine perfume, and mothballs. 

“Are you hungry? I baked oatmeal cookies with your name on ‘em.”

Milo grinned. 

Even though Grandma insisted on making cookies with raisins—he hated raisins—it’d be nice to have food from the oven, not a box.

“Go put your suitcase in the den. Then I wanna hear all about school!”

The shelf in the den groaned under the weight of dusty books. 

A jar of marbles caught Milo’s eye, the opalescent gems shimmering like pirates’ treasures. 

Milo noticed one marble was an iridescent orb, not clear glass enshrouding a ribbon twirl.

He fished it from the jar. 

It was freezing—a tiny ball of ice. Then suddenly, a fiery sensation tickled his palm.

Milo’s whole body convulsed like a hooked fish.

A high-pitched hum swallowed all other sounds. Everything went white.

Within seconds, Milo’s body relaxed. The shrill sound dissipated. Colors returned.

Only Milo was on a lumpy couch, not Grandma’s den. 

He recognized the cushion’s texture, though it took a moment to place it. It was the old couch they’d had before Dad bought the fancy leather one that could only be used with a sheet covering it. 

Milo heard a familiar sound, though he couldn’t immediately identify it. 

Then, he realized it was his mother humming the line of “Both Sides Now,” that says: “I really don’t know clouds at all.”

It was Milo’s favorite lullaby. He’d always loved the part about clouds looking like ice cream castles in the air.

Where am I? 

Milo suddenly noticed the t-shirt he’d been wearing hung like a dress. His shoes were so big they flopped right off.

“Hi, darling!”

Mom appeared from the ether holding a comic book. 

“Should we practice your reading for a few minutes before bed?”

Practice my reading? I learned to read in first grade!

Milo rubbed his eyes, cradling the marble in one fist.

“What’re you doing here, Mama?

Without answering, Mom sat next to Milo and pulled his head against her doughy chest. 

He’d forgotten the grounding soundtrack of her thumping heart.

Milo drank her smell—jasmine shampoo. He’d forgotten its sweetness. 

“I miss you, Mama.”

“I miss you too, sweetheart. But we get to spend tonight together.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“The marble only lets you travel to the past once.”

Milo released a guttural sigh. “But I need you every day.”

“I know, sweetie. But I’m actually with you every day.”

“No, you’re not! Not in the future. You died and left me with just Daddy.”

Mom brushed back his sandy curls.

“You know the warmth on your cheeks when you look up at the sky on a sunny day? That’s me.”

Milo loved sunlight painting his face with heat.

“But what about when it rains?”

“Oh. Well, you know the sound of raindrops dancing in puddles? That’s me kissing you.”

Milo thought about that. He didn’t usually like rain, but if his mom was in every drop, maybe rain wasn’t so bad.

“But what about when it snows?”

“You know the glimmer of falling snowflakes? That sparkle is me smiling at you. And when you hear thunder, that’s me laughing. And when it’s windy, I’m singing you a lullaby.”

“But then what happens on a cloudy day when there’s no sunshine to warm my face, no raindrops to hear you talking to me, no thunder to hear you laughing, no wind to hear you singing, and it’s not cold enough for twinkling snowflakes?”

“That’s the best of them all. I am the clouds. Those pillowy clouds are my body wrapping you in a big ‘ol’ mama hug from the sky.”

Milo smiled. That sounded nice.

“See? I’m always with you, sweetie.”

“I wish Daddy loved me like you. He’s always leaving.”

“Well, diplomats have to travel a lot. But Daddy loves you more than anything.”

Milo’s shoulders folded towards one another. He looked down at his lap, everything blurring. A couple of tears moistened his cheeks and then succumbed to the force of gravity, tumbling down. 

A few landed on his red T-shirt, temporarily tattooing maroon polka dots. 

He noticed that the breast pocket was nearly in line with his belly button, as one errant tear landed right in the pouch.

Mom took a silk handkerchief from her pocket. It smelled of lilacs.

“What’s up, my darling?” She lifted his chin and dried the blotches of wetness glinting in the dim light.

“Daddy said it’s better to be away.” Milo swallowed against a constriction in his throat.

It reminded him of watching his dad struggle to swallow gloopy potatoes the other night at dinner.

That's odd; I’m not even eating.

“You know, honey. Daddy is just grieving just like you.”

Milo hadn’t considered that. 

They sat in silence, allowing their touch to be enough.

Finally, Mom broke the pregnant pause. “I think for Daddy, being busy really helps. He’s always loved his job. But most of all, it might be a little hard for Daddy to be with you.”

“Because he doesn’t love me?”

“No, babe. It’s the opposite. Daddy loves you so much and every single day you look more and more like me. We have the same eyes. You even have my smile, and definitely my laugh.”

Milo looked up at his mom, a sparkle of hope coloring his pale complexion.

“I do?”

“Yes. So, when Daddy sees you, he sees me. Part of him loves that so much that he can’t handle it.”

She paused. “But he will grow to love that part of you so much that he’ll be obsessed with you,” she said, tickling him.

Milo giggled. Mom laughed. A beautiful, synchronized harmony that required no choreography, no practice.

It felt good to laugh. Milo had forgotten the feeling of his belly aching from untamable laughter rather than burning from unavoidable anxiety.

When the fit of laughter finally stopped, Milo felt a sense of peace echoing throughout his little body. 

He made a mental note to tell Dad that Mommy was in the sun, rain, snow, wind, and clouds.

“Why does the marble haveta’ stop working?”

“It doesn’t! It just works for the future now.”

“The future?”

“Yes. You’ll see.”

Milo’s eyebrows arched, but he slipped the talisman into his shirt’s breast pocket, hoping Mom was right.

They cuddled the rest of the evening. Milo told her about fourth grade, his first home run, and TV dinners.

Eventually, his eyelids drooped like his baggy shorts. 

He could hear Mom’s melodic voice but couldn’t follow her words.

He could still feel her steady heartbeat rhythmically vibrating his head. 

He fought the fatigue but lost the battle. 

The ringing sound returned. Everything was engulfed in white.

Only this time, Milo‘s body wasn’t writhing.

It was perfectly still except for the gentle lub-tub of something in the pocket of his perfectly-fitting shirt.