Kachi

It was the end of the afternoon. We'd been to the beach and come home, sweeping into the air conditioning in our damp and sandy clothes, uncomfortable and cranky because it was over.

I dove headfirst into chores, the ones I shouldn't have left from the morning.  

Sam, Vava, and Pascal all followed the usual routine: taking off their suits, leaving their towels in the laundry, finding something to do.

But Kachi stormed and scowled by the door.

A friend phoned and I inhaled her conversation like food after a hard day's work.

I filled the tub for Kachi, hoping its warmth would wash away his heaviness. It didn't.

 

He yelled and I ignored for five minutes, ten, until finally I put my call on hold and asked him what was wrong.

 

"Will you stay in here with me?" he asked, but it came out fierce and sulky, a command, a challenge.

 

I could feel my eyeballs rolling. 

Sigh. Didn't I just spend the whole afternoon at the beach with these kids?

I deserve a chat on the phone. I do. 

But early in the afternoon Kachi had been yelled at, unfairly, by a grown up he didn't know and he'd retreated into the beach chairs
And hadn't played with us
And had just waited, eyebrows low and heart tossing, until we left.

So I said my goodbyes, and, still wearing my bathing suit, stepped into the tub.

Kachi's eyes grew huge, and he gasped in delight. The water rose as I sank down and laid my head against the edge. Kachi laid his head on my arm and opened up, letting the injustice and sorrow tumble out until we both just sat there, silent, together.

Sam needs to share a laugh, eyes meeting, joyful, over a common absurdity or delight.
Vava needs to be seen, she loves being caught doing something happy or kind or helpful.
Pascal needs to be snuggled and smooched.

Kachi? Kachi just wants to be together.