Free Paper, Scissors, Death by Joanna Campbell Slan

lamb,” I said as I patted her. “I’d love to share our bacon with you, drool face, but your innards wouldn’t like it as much as your chompers would.”
    Anya wandered in, wearing cute pink jammies festooned with hearts and kisses. Sheila had impeccable taste. She made sure Anya not only fit in at CALA but was a pacesetter where fashion was concerned.
    My child is a slow waker-upper. Rubbing her eyes, she pushed food around on her plate. She did pick out one piece of bacon and one slice of apple. With her fork, she foraged around in the pancake for another slice or two before taking her plate to the sink.
    I, on the other hand, ate every scrap of my helping. I savored the mix of maple syrup flavor, cinnamon, vanilla, and butter.
    I pointed to the untouched food on my child’s plate. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”
    She gave me a weak smile. “I’m not hungry.”
    I didn’t want to make her a member of the clean plate club like I’d been. The portions we serve in this country are outrageous. Encouraging children to overeat in order to save starving kids in Africa has contributed, in my humble opinion, to much of our problem with obesity. I slid the rest of the giant pancake into a plastic container for later.
    “Get dressed, Anya-Banana. Gracie’s ready for her run.”
    Forty-five minutes later, we were on Babler Access Road, passing a sign that announced “Dimont Development Inc.’s Babler Estates. Luxury homes in a beautiful setting.” Oh, George, I thought, you worked so hard on this subdivision full of luxury homes—and now your kid is living in substandard housing.
    We found a place to park and let Gracie roam the hills of Babler at the end of a retractable lead. Anya and I walked hand in hand. The earliest spring flowers—jonquils, crocus, and snowdrops—had faded on yellowing stalks. The next wave was gathering courage to burst into bloom. Bare tree branches were tipped in a watercolor wash of celery, celadon, mint, lime, and olive. In a week or two, the skyline would shout hosannah with verdant life. In spring and fall, there is no more beautiful place on earth than the hill country of Missouri.
    “Don’t you just hate those mean old bees for stinging you?” Anya’s jeans stepped in unison to mine as we followed in Gracie’s feverous wake.
    “Nah. It wasn’t personal.”
    One side of her mouth rose in a “huh?”
    “Anya, baby, those bees were trying to protect their food, their homes, and their families. I was an intruder. They would have stung anybody in that box. How can I be mad at them for trying to protect what they love? I’d do the same.”
    “Makes sense. But they were still awful nasty to you.” She walked beside me quietly. We both treasured spending time together now. I worried how this might change when she became a teen.
    We followed Gracie quietly and watched her joyous explorations with smiles on our faces. The big dog stopped at one point and sniffed the cup of a late-blooming jonquil, a real straggler of a flower.
    “Do you miss Daddy?” She asked me this frequently.
    “Of course I do.”
    “I miss him … a lot.”
    I put my arm around her. “I know you do.”
    “But Daddy watches over us.”
    “I think so.” And you’re doing a really poor job, George, I muttered under my breath. Get on the stick, pal. Or turn the job back over to a real guardian angel and find another line of work.
    “Gran misses Daddy. When I sleep over, I hear her cry at night.”
    Ah. Poor Sheila, I thought. Tough as nails in the light of day, but letting it all go in private. Too bad we didn’t know each other or like each other enough to share our grief.
    “I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine losing a child. Losing you would be the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Nothing anyone can do to a mother is as bad as hurting her baby.”
    Anya gave me a long, searching look. She made a fist and bumped my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. You’re