Pear

I bought a pear last weekend, thinking that when it ripened, it would be soft enough for Allison Clare to eat. I squeezed it solemnly and thoughtfully each morning until yesterday, when it seemed perfect: firm, not mushy, and sweet enough to melt away in the mouth. I was so happy that it was ripe, and so delighted when Allison Clare loved the little pieces I cut from it for her to eat with her tiny fingers.

For some reason, thinking about the pear makes me want to cry: it seems like a symbol of the things I do for her with such tender hopes (things I would scorn doing for anyone else . . . "Of course it's ripe, Sam, just eat it, okay?"), and how completely happy I feel when they work out--like it was just the most wonderful thing in the world that the pear was ripe, and the most completely satisfying that she liked it.

Maybe what I should be shedding tears over is how my world has contracted to myself, the fickle tastes of a toddler, and a piece of fruit--and yet, I can't even seem to manage any skeptical distance on my own sappiness.

Has anyone ever noticed how happiness and sappiness are only one letter apart?

JS had better return from Korea soon--I'm clearly losing it by myself over here.