The boy and the chip

It was a hot day at the Manly wharf.

"Dad, why don't some people write back?" my son blurts, staring at his hot chips.

"We are taught to write back to everyone at school. Even the teacher writes something back... Even when we don't want her to." Feeling silly from the heat, I took a chip from his cup and threw it at a nearby flock of gulls. I didn't need to look at him to see his mouth open and awoken from his trance.

"Look," I told him before he could speak. A squabble had erupted amongst the birds.

"Are we gulls or are we that chip?" This may have been too complicated for a 8 year old boy.

"I don't know," he paused. I don't know either, I thought, feeling buyer's remorse at my bravado. But as fathers do, I acted on this felt responsibility to provide some certainty. I said,

"people don't write back because once they do, hundreds of others send something back. Even if you didn't even write to them. It gets tiring." I let him sit on it for a bit as he chewed in between his chips and his serviette.

"So we are the chip?" I turned to him slowly and he tilted his head.

"I guess so..." I turned away and life paused me as I stared off ahead.