stingy ovenbird I want to know this child sitting across from me in the mall food court. At fourteen he doles out words like my mother-in-law doles out dessert, with a deeply conservative stinginess. (There’s ONE chocolate each. To reach for a second would be rude.) I ask about school, I ask about friends, I ask if he’s surviving French class, I ask what he worries about. The answers: fine, fine, yeah, and nothing. We share onion rings and root beer. Then we go to every shoe store in the mall where I nearly die of sticker shock, but eventually find something he can tolerate for a suitable price. I learn that his feet are a US 9.5 and I file that information away. This is something I now know about him for sure, though it won’t be true for very long. I wonder how he sees me. He doesn’t really know me either. He knows the person who is “Mom” but that’s only a fragment of who I am. We choose a selection of chocolate creams from Purdy’s on our way home, two strangers finding a way to speak through something sweet. We eat more than one each and we don’t feel guilty at all. 260316 what's it to you? who go blather from