I sat on the floor of my apartment with an eleven-year-old
and...
I sat on the floor of my apartment with an eleven-year-old
and showed her how to carve a spoon. She took the small blade in her hand and
she pressed it against the oak with her thumb like I showed her, and the curls
of wood fell on her socks and the floor like the clipped toenails of babies.
She talked while she carved. She told me about her life. This small creature,
this cusping girl, this child who talked like a grown-up, whose face showed the
pure pain of childhood. Earnest eyes already. Already an astute meteorologist
of her own internal weather. I showed her how to place the blade and she,
candid, open, brave, showed me what it looks like to say the true, hard things.
And she asked about how best to know what parts of the spoon handle needed
still to be smoothed. “In this case, can you tell more with your eyes or more
with your hands?” she asked. We closed our eyes and felt the handle with our
fingers, and we opened our eyes and looked. I knew she knew the answer before
she asked it. And I knew she sensed it was a bigger question than best methods
with wooden spoons. What you can see versus what you can feel. Where do you
find the truth? We searched for the splintered spots, and found them, and tried
our best that night to make them smooth.
