Sunday, September 6, 2009

September 6

It was quiet.

We sat on the front porch of Jack's parents' little country house in East Texas, sitting in the cool shade and enjoying the trees. The dog was sunning himself in the yard, and Jack, his parents, and myself occasionally struck up a conversation about nothing in particular. The grill heated up and flies buzzed around us, evidently triggering an urge in Jack to practice his "Karate Kid" moves.

A fly would land on Jack's leg. He would slowly lift his hand up behind the fly, then launch his hand at the fly suddenly in an attempt to catch it.


Another would land on me. Jack would try and fail at catching it once more, this time slapping me in the process.

"You're not going to catch one, Jack," I told him.

"I am! I am going to catch one!" Then, with renewed motivation to show me that he could, he would try again.

Another miss.

"What are you going to do if you catch one?" I asked.

"I'm going to shake it up and pop it in my mouth," he joked, with animated pantomime, then he went back to trying to catch flies.

Miss. Miss. Miss.

It went on like this for a while. A very long while.

Another landed on his knee. Like all the other times, Jack raised his hand and readied himself for the attack.


Jack closed his hand into a loose fist and looked up at me with wide eyes and a big smile.

"I caught one!!" he said, excitedly.

"Did you really catch one?" I asked, skeptically, as I took his picture with my phone.

"I did! Watch!" he said, as he slowly opened his hand. A fly crawled out of his hand and flew away.

He did it. My husband caught a fly with his hand.

What a freak.

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