It's anything but Stoic to confess that my own mortality weighs heavy these days. And it would be anything but honest to suggest that Stoic fronts are somehow excused from association with other "frontish" behavior, including the garrulous fake smile or the "Bless her little heart".
A false front is a false front, no matter how tidy or trendy or ancient.
So the girls and I stopped along the Florida-Alabama state line to eat ice cream cones and listen to the pleasure boats cruise in from the bay. I watched the water slowly, carefully, wistlessly move the sand over our toes and wondered, "What would the girls do if I died tomorrow?"
Milla's raspberry-chocolate ice cream cone dripped a creamy rainbow over the sunset-golden sand. We shared the own world of water and sand, which leaves only small spaces for intersections.
Of course, one day, I will die. And the kids will be something akin to sad, though confused and speechless comes closer to the colors death paints over our lives.
I want that day to be so far in the future that a homegoing celebration would be appropriate. But I can't control that. I can't control anything. I can't even keep the sunset clean. Perhaps pretense is another way to pretend we can control this world that is not ours for the ruling.
