Ghosts of Cabeceo Past, Part 3: The Bough Breaks

Where to begin? Lots of people like the cabeceo. Let’s go there.

Drop back a few years to the pervert. Then fast-forward to the girl with the knife and malice in her eyes. (Read those stories.)

When I tell people I was not traumatized by the pervert, they think I am lying. They get that “poor dear” look in their eyes.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough.

I run this idea by Mary Alice.

I don’t know what to do, I say. I just don’t feel it. Didn’t then. Don’t now. Maybe I should try to rustle up some … I don’t know … shock and awe.

Mary Alice guffaws.

If the trauma didn’t happen in the moment, it’s not going to happen now, she says.

Mary Alice has common sense. She comes from Wyoming-frontier pioneer stock with a touch of the Sorbonne.

But, this raises the question: Why no trauma in the moment?

Because he had nice eyes. Kind. Friendly. Not scary. I liked him. My intuition takes a millisecond to size up a stranger. Even then. Never mind the rest. When I looked in his eyes, I saw friendly.

The girl with the knife just the opposite. This is the story my family tends to blow off. She was just a kid. It was probably a pocketknife. Don’t be a drama queen, One Heart.

Yes, well…. They did not look into her eyes. Or rather, her eyes did not look into theirs. The knife was window dressing.

Before the girl with the knife, the world was predictable and mostly pleasant. Safe. After, I saw with new eyes: Not suspicious, not mistrusting, but with trust turned on its head: I no longer trusted the bough to hold, I trusted it to break.

Lullaby, baby, in the treetop.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
and down will come baby, cradle and all.