The Magician

by Rebecca Serle

“Your childhood must have been full of magic,” people always tell me. And it was. Cards and expandable sleeves and, once, an actual rabbit. But “magic” is not what they mean. Magic is tricks. It is sleight of hand. Magic is not made-up stories and silk playthings and imagined fairies. Magic is not the golden hour at sunset. That is just good lighting.

If mothering is a long con, then fatherhood is a shell game.

Sandra Kramer did not know to cut the crusts off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and she left her keys in the refrigerator and all the lettuce always went bad. But she knew how to fly, and back then, it was enough. It was everything.

Seth looks at parenthood like a camping trip. You’ll probably get a little dirty and a little lost and forget some things you need, but think of the pictures!

“Mom,” I say, still fingering the scarf. “Will you start up your act out there?” I haven’t asked. I think I’m afraid of the answer. On the one hand, that she’ll give it up. On the other, that she’ll go on as she always has. That she’ll set up, two thousand miles away.

“Are you ever worried you can’t anymore?” As soon as I’ve said it, I regret it. What if she says yes? “No,” she says. “But I’m worried they’ll see it.” I keep looking at her. “The effort,” she says. Rule number one of magic: ease.

She looks to me. She wants to know. I think about telling her my fear. That my child will not truly know me without knowing her. That in order to be a mother, I need mine.

She doesn’t stop walking. And as we take steps, I wonder whether my response is unfair. Whether I am asking her to be a mother first, still.