Halfway into our session we went upstairs for a hot cocoa break
and sat on the mismatched barstools by his counter (a tradition that had
begun shortly after my mother started using my lesson time for running
errands). Our best conversations always took place in his small kitchen,
with its peeling countertop and turquoise backsplash.
Having my mother at the lessons had been nice at first. She and
Dylan had both been the oldest of a number of siblings, and so they had
enough in common to fill the three hours with background noise; they
exchanged stories about their mandatory babysitting days that mostly
ended in harmless embarrassment for their poor younger brothers and
sisters. She looked infinitely more beautiful in the midst of those bouts of
laughter.
After a while, though, I think she caught onto the fact that I
wanted lessons with Dylan to be “my” thing, my first foray into the world
of people and experiences separate from hers. Maybe it was my suggestion
that she check out the whole foods store that was ten minutes away (or
get her shoes shined at the local mall or look for toys for my cousin’s baby
that hadn’t yet been conceived), or maybe she just realized that she was
ready to gift me with my first real taste of independence, but after a few
months she let me take on Thursday nights on my own.
When he gave me my mug—the purple clay one on which he
had painted an elephant