I think there are more, actually. The birds and cats and the one happy dog seem to be everywhere. The beautiful chicken with feathers on her feet is keeping close to us because the others bully her. The terrible price of beauty. “She won’t lay,” her people tell us. They have walked us through their marvelous house. It’s Southern Gothic with molded cornice pieces and gobs of stuff. They collect things. Interesting wooden hutches and knickknacks and proteges. Or anyway, I feel that I’m being collected as they trot us about, announcing their enthusiasms.
It’s lovely. This calm. This cramped little house. The projects underfoot. The animals everywhere. I could forget here. I could forget everything.
They are telling me how it is to have a gay daughter. How they knew she was sporty and tough and could clobber even the boys, but never thought much more about it. “The word,” her mother tells me. “I never had a word for it.”
No. But there are a lot of words for it. And a lot of words against it. And none of this should matter. Because there is a child. Because your morality over there and my morality over here don’t need to match. They just need to be respected.