Time. Alone.

It’s after dinner and I need to check out. It’s been a long day. I go to the front porch. Apparently it’s been a long day for Kyle as well because he had to check out as well. He’s on the sidewalk by himself in his imaginary plane. He is walking backwards with his hands raised. I know his hands are lights.

“Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh!”

I appreciate his imagination, but not this irritating sound.

“Can you please stop making that noise, bud?”

“I’m backing up. It’s for safety.”

“It’s annoying. Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh! No one likes that sound, Ky.”

“That’s not how it sounds. Your pitch is too low. It has to be like this. Eh! Eh! Eh! Eh!”

Sometimes Pheobe and I will watch one of those amateur singing shows, like the one where the judges turn their chairs. We like the blind auditions best because we pretend to turn our own chairs. Invariably we are always baffled when one of our picks is not picked and the judge explains the person was too pitchy. Pitchy? But Kyle, as his music teacher has suggested, might have perfect pitch. We…