And the Winner Is

“Work with me here,” Avery groaned from the other end of the miniature shoe I was struggling onto his right foot.
Not a genuine request nor even his own thought, but instead it was a parroting from somewhere else, some time else that he learned ought to fit this, our current situation. Since Avery is four and his father is not, there was the likely source.
Slightly amused, I handed over the tablet with The Duck Song squawking from it once again. Like some panacea or pseudo miracle, it melted those pudgy feet right into their respective shoes. And I laced them with more enthusiasm than necessary, as per usual, in an effort, maybe to keep from being yanked back into a past to when such a plea was last tried on me. And I resisted, as we so often do when that rare moment comes when we are finally offered power we're too eager to misuse.
Peace is never as exciting as the feeling of winning, you know.
“Zat weally necersery?” growled the still blurry little face from behind the flow of generic krispies tinkling into the bowl, as if he knew without knowing that winners consume only name brand cereals.
“Completely necessary,” I carefully emphasized because I need him to know winners enunciate with purpose.
I want him to know that we, too - we, TWO will redefine success as need arises, such as suppressing the recurring hunger for peace bubbling up and over, morphing into the very polar opposite, if only within the confines of a mind like mine, wrapped in blown glass - a barometer clouding over yet again.
I bring its aspirin to it, as per usual, but the empty milk jug shrugs at me from the center of our $5 dollar folding table - I mean, “winner’s circle”, while The Duck suggests we might actually have a taste for lemonade after all.