The Girl Who Learned To Kneel

Perhaps we have reached a new low on our third day of driving. You decide. It goes something like this: two adults who clearly didn’t do enough rebelling when they were teenagers leave their daughter’s dirty diaper in a Santa Fe parking lot. They consider marking their entire journey in this manner. Littering the nation with Elsie’s shit. Like a dog marking his territory. Or a beer can murderer discarding his lunch items. I suddenly understand. That little naughty act. A sort of rebellion, a claiming of space, something. It was the treacherous road conditions of the previous night that made us loopy and non-chalant. What set you off, beer boy? I want to know. But their rebellion is short lived. Soon they’re back in the car singing songs to their baby: “Elsie, will you come out and play? Elsie, we’ll have a good time. Elsie, your daddy and mama love you big time.” The lyrics are malleable but always profound. Next the mama distracts the baby with a book, ‘Colors.’ Baby is enchanted by the purple butterfly and stares for a good minute. Only four hours to go through the Land of Enchantment. Too bad the rattle is a no go. Next stop Cracker Barrel. The rebels have a craving for chicken noodle soup. You don’t want to meet them in a dark alley. That’s for sure.