Silas is looking at me from across the table. His elbows pinch the bowl of turkey soup in front of him while his eyes roll in disinterest. The nachos he wolfed 30 minutes earlier haven’t left room for anything else except boredom. Which is why his soup bowl is bobbing three quarters full. And why he has time to stare at me.
“Mom,” he starts, “right below the ripples under your eyes…”
But he doesn’t finish—can’t finish before we’ve all looked up from our spoons. “Ripples?”
“Yeah,” he says. “The place right here.” He is rubbing his pointer fingers under both eyes, massaging the bags and creases he doesn’t have. Ripples.
If Silas has more to say, we never hear it. Troy and I are too busy comparing ripples.
“My,” he says, “you must not have slept well.”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“Well, according to the ripples under your eyes…”
It is the word “fart” reinvented. And we are five. Unable to not use “ripples” in every sentence hereafter.
But. I wonder…who wouldn’t rather have ripples than bags?