chocolate milk

Jacob, 8-year old chocolate milk drinker comes in today with his dad, a pastor for The Salvation Army. Dad sits on the patio for a bit, talks to friends. Jacob is bored and wanders back inside with his milk. He and I start chatting. We talk about how, apparently, he’s a smartypants, how he’s very good at math, how he reads at a 7th grade level, what his favorite books are, which leads to Harry Potter, of course. I tell him my birthday is the same day as Harry’s. His big brown eyes get even bigger.

He goes back outside with his chocolate milk.

Minutes later, he’s back, standing in front of the espresso machine, looking up at me. His freckles look like flecks of coffee with cream.

JACOB: Hey, uhm, whatever your name is, can I talk to you some more?

SELF: Well, my name is Tracey. And, sure.

JACOB: So, can I tell you a secret?

SELF: If you’d like to.

JACOB: But it’s a real embarrassing secret. Do you promise not to laugh?

SELF: I do.

JACOB: Uhm … I have a really big wart on the bottom of my foot.

I don’t laugh. I ask him questions about his wart. He explains it all at length, with great relish, because he’s 8 years old and a boy and that’s what you’re supposed to do. He’s braving the whole wart experience quite well, I think, considering at one point in his story there is a “huge pocket knife!” involved. This elicits horrified “oohs” and “acks” from me, which he seems to really enjoy. He finishes the wart story, satisfied, I guess, that he’s covered everything. Then I grab some paper and we play a word game I know until dad comes and tells him it’s time to go.

JACOB: Bye, Tracey!

He waves to me.

SELF: See ya, Jacob! Have a good spring break!