“Oh,
my goodness,” she wailed, tears streaking her smoke and ash stained face. “I
tried to use the fire distinguisher. I did, but …”
“Maggie,
it’s all right. You’re all right.” I hugged her and patted her back. “Take a
deep breath, dear. It’ll all be all right.”
“I’m
not being historical. Really, I’m not.” She settled against my shoulder, hiccoughing.
“But, you always say I should be more remorseful.”
“Resourceful,
dear.”
“What?”
She pulled away from me, her blue eyes wide, filled with fresh tears.
“Resourceful.
I always say you should be more resourceful.”
“I
know. That’s why I tried to put it out myself.”
I knew I shouldn't laugh. She was my beautiful daughter who normally smelled of cherry
blossoms and lavender. She spoke faster than she thought when she was in the
throes of any intense emotion – anger, joy. And today, fear.
“And
you did fine. I’m glad the fire department got here so quickly.”
“They
asked me how it started. I tried to tell them. But I couldn’t remember all the
perpendiculars.
I’m afraid I got them all mixed up.”
I
laughed. “You, my dear, are the quintessential master of the malapropism.”
“Quinta
what?” She stamped her foot. “Mom, you are being completely nonsensual.”
“Maggie!” I laughed. I cried with laughter. “Maggie, Maggie, please quit.
Just be quiet for a little. My cheeks hurt.”
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