Like the Easter Bunny Does
Early spring sun. Our rubber soles tread asphalted suburban streets, side by side, Sunday afternoon. Every election time, my son and I knock on doors, talk to voters, and leave pamphlet information if no one answers. If our knock rings empty and the doorstep stays quiet, Jess giggles. These chuckles surface because he knows this means he can place a leaflet at their door. A present to find later, just as the Easter Bunny does.
This is how he acts. He’s giving those doorsteps a gift to discover, like a treasure hunt. On to the next house.
A late-middle-aged man with sleepy eyes and round stomach answers his door. Unhappy with our presence. But I am not the main attraction for this man — his gaze keeps sliding to my companion. His attention pulls from my face and words about the government’s economic platform to judge what’s in front of him and put it in a box. Put a label on it. Me, he’s mentally tagged and dismissed: do-gooder suburban housewife. One of those. My son, however, is more complicated.
It’s not hard to imagine what this man sees — how my son can’t keep his body still. How he holds his hands in front of his chest, alternately gripping one of his palms, rubbing fingers together, or twisting his wrists haphazardly. On this quiet, sunny afternoon, he’s delighted and amused, out in a new neighbourhood with his mom, leaving leaflet offerings at the front doors. He hums and pants quietly as usual, not invisibly or inaudibly. These vocalizations are the soundtrack to my life; I never ask him to stop. My child’s happy noises are like laughter’s precursor. He moves his head back and forth, eyes shifting side to side while his body rocks. He gazes downward, a large smile on his face, shy and bashful. I find it charming and am used to it.
To me, my door-knocking buddy is a good-looking young man with an athletic physique. On the inside, he’s still — and always will be — a generous and gentle child who laughs easily. In the chin stubble and wavy hair, I eternally perceive the echo of his preschooler’s sweet face that made strangers’ eyes linger. However…
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing. He’s happy to be here.”
“Why did you bring him?” I regard this gentleman as I absorb what’s behind his question and consider possible responses.
Mentally discarding the rude retort, I offer, “He likes to help.”
This man doesn’t deserve the information he seeks. That’s not for you, sir. My revenge: I refuse to give it to him. He doesn’t get ammunition to fuel labelled judgements he’s already formed about Jess.
My candidate doesn’t want this man’s vote anyway. We disengage, but we don’t leave a present.
“Don’t worry son, the next house will want your brochure.”
Hand in hand, we swing arms to the next address on our clipboarded list. He laughs, anticipating the opportunity to leave a memento — his record of I was here.
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