I'm sure she's never seen me tear grapes in two, with my teeth, but that's just what I do.
Why dirty a knife when teeth are just as sharp and the product is almost instantaneous?
But she is always busy and day dreaming and speaking of far-off lands and castles made from Oreos and sand.
She's never so much as given a sideways glance when I'm setting a handful of torn fruit on her sisters tray. She's tossing her head to and fro and singing a fairy-tale song that I'm sure was created just two minutes earlier. She never notices. She doesn't see it and never thinks twice about the grapes that I squish between my teeth. The fruit I give to her closest playmate. Which is probably good assuming she (and others?) would be squeamish at the thought. But she is making a tee-pee from a napkin and using a fork as a mythical flying horse and is too occupied to notice.
With little conversation, on the most gloomy of Sunday afternoons, we sit for a snack. Quietly she eats her plate of assorted fruit, staring into the street and watches car after car pass us by. Without looking away from the window she asks, "where do cars come from, mommy?". I too stared out the window and began my explanation. Just as I came to the conclusion of my explanation of the Industrial Revolution and the assembly line concept, I looked down.
Seven small, torn grapes sit in front of me. A small offering.
She is still staring out the window.
Turns out she has been watching all the while.
