You're in a hotel room...

You're in a hotel room and the whole thing has gone sour.

Your partner is sitting, staring in the dim light with a hollow look, your captive laid out on the bed, having passed out much earlier than planned. Now moving about or making any noise is out of the question, as you can't afford to wake him, it's far too dangerous.

Getting him settled had been a whole deal, too. He complained a lot, but that was to be expected. But more than that he was loud about it: there was yelling, screaming, it was all you could do to keep him quiet. What if the neighbors heard? This was hardly an expensive hotel, the walls were thin and sound carried.

At one point he'd gotten himself so worked up he got an inexplicable bloody nose, of unknown origin, though it'd been a difficult car ride, so who knows? You didn't intend to be rough with him, that was never in your plan. But there'd been a lot of resistance, he fought you the whole way. Maybe he got injured during the transfer, it was hard to say. Everything happened so fast.

And speaking of fast, that was probably where things got off track. The decision to leave was pure impulse, but you didn't have to bring him along. Good or bad, there was always another way. But as always, money was a strong motivator, plus it was risky leaving him behind. This wasn't your first rodeo.

But even seasoned pros get rattled, make mistakes. And you definitely left some things behind. You just weren't expecting all this...unexpected. Your partner said it'd be a short trip, a quick joy ride out of state. But now it seemed so rash, so foolish. So amateur.

You settled on a hotel just outside the capital, and did what you could to keep a low profile checking in. Starving, you passed the hotel restaurant and, tragically, the hotel bar, but you knew better than to even try. Besides, you needed your wits about you, especially with this one. He was just too clever. And fast.

On top of that, you neglected to bring all the right tools for the job. Normally you'd have more options, several more forms of restraint, and even some entertainment to pass the time. Now, alone in the darkened room, tense and exhausted, your ward breathing softly beside you, time was definitely not on your side. What were you going to do now? Turn back? It was far too late for all that.

Why, oh why, hadn't you planned this better?

You turn to your partner, and mouth that you're going to try sneaking out to the lobby. Maybe they had a gift shop that carried Children's Tylenol, or maybe a toy he could teeth on if he woke up again? And while you were at it, I mean, this was supposed to be a fun trip, and it was only 7 o'clock. You left your book and Ipad at home by mistake and TV was out of the question so... what the heck else were you going to do? Surely your partner could watch the kid sleep for an hour or two. Heck, maybe you'd treat yourself to that drink after all.

You slip out, silent as an assassin, and breath a sigh of relief as you finally escape the dark prison of your hotel room. You skip the gift shop, closed anyway, and instead head straight for the bar for a much needed, and frankly earned, nightcap.

Swim

First, a cruel push into the unknown, his small lizard brain shutting down breath as he plunged below the surface, surviving or perhaps remembering, thrust once from, and then into, a liquid world. Wide-eyed and sputtering he emerged, and this is when knowing began.

Then it was explored, this stuff that makes wet, a way to wash, comfortable at home. A game too, dunking mouth and nose, kicking one foot and then two. Surprise! There are more kinds of water, big ones and blue ones, puddle ones, salty ones. Floating seats and arm floats, the battling of noodles and balls. Holding and clinging first to momma, then to the side wall, like a quivering mouse, like a sucker fish. Kicking revisited, with purpose now: get mommy wet, faster like running, behind you like Superman. Blowing bubbles, a master skill all its own, practiced above and below, blowing like the wind, out like a birthday candle, ho hum, hum, hum. Laying back, relaxing, head on mommy's shoulder like a pillow now, looking up at beams and clouds. Then work, two tasks at once, blowing while kicking, walking not falling, motorboat faster and faster. Dunking by accident, then on purpose, jumping. Circles with arms. Overconfident, scolded, no running. Paddle like a dog, like a beaver. Diving.

Small and granular tasks—unique but meaningfully related, like grains of sand on a beach—a boy learns to swim.

Sway

Photo by Stiller Beobachter

He died in a forest, surrounded by trees. His body, now still of it's own accord, swung lightly. A rustling breeze masked leather creaking on branch, so that not even the birds back from a quick flight could guess yet what was lost.

Not hours before the choking and swelling, the boy's problems loomed large. His parents threatened public humiliation, teachers talked of expulsion. His friends, all assholes, just laughed. Like they didn't play a part.

So disappearing had been better. A long run in the woods, then a walk, hours or maybe a day gone, lost. Near the trees he could be forgotten and could try forgetting and it hadn't been too much.

But unreturned home there'd been a commotion. What felt scary now turned icy terrifying when the dogs and search party made it clear just how much trouble he was in.

No choice but to pull back, watch the searchers, hide from the seekers. To go back now wasn't an option. All eyes would be on him, so much more than before.

He was sorry it had all happened. He wished he could take it back. But no apology—to his parents, group, or school—was going to fix this, things would never be the same. He'd never seen this kind of shit storm, couldn't imagine it's girth. Instead, he felt deeply the panic it rained down: his own, his mother's, the "community's". The belt was close, emotions too big. He'd show them. Eat my shit, fuckers. In your face, world. 

And with that he let the branches and trees and breeze take him away.

Sleight of hand

A passionate child, madly in love with an idea or object, who is also observant and fully dedicated to their cause, will be steadfast in their pursuit. Lying in wait they are catlike in their watching, waiting for the slip they know will come, alert to your movements and open to improvise. Patience—a virtue that is otherwise quite unfamiliar to your busy child—is, in this moment, not only possible, but a work of mastery. Should your language lapse, your attention break, your sleight of hand fail, this whiff of opportunity is like blood on the wind, a pile of meat on a platter you’ve served up for maximum, and persistent, exploitation. Nothing, not one thing, is as desirous to a lovesick child as a current infatuation—whether a steep staircase, an expensive guitar, or an unsupervised bowl of berries.