Rituals
Thin strips of light laced the room. Each line followed the contour of every bend, every feature. My eyes slowly focused, sharpening the striped scene. My bedroom was in its usual state--jumbled. I slid out from underneath my sheets; my toes searched the floor for my slippers. The morning air was creeping in through a small crack in my window, leaving a blanket of crisp, cool air on the floor. Finally my toes found their Mecca and climbed inside my wool-lined slippers with a sigh of relief. I felt each vertebra crack as I pushed my arms up to stretch. A deep yawn announced my consciousness.
Upon opening my door, I stepped into the hallway; it was a somber scene. Still cloaked in darkness, the pictures that held images of smiling family members were in shadow. They looked like a dismantled jigsaw puzzle made of all square pieces. The other doors were still shut, silent, hiding pools of energy wrapped in blankets. It was always quiet this early. The only sounds were the deep, slow breathing of sleeping children and a snoring poodle; and an occasional hum of a car going by the front windows. I enjoyed these mornings; my ears reveled in the delight of the relative silence.
As I walked to the kitchen the floorboards kept their silence. Their usual song was vacant. It seemed the house itself was sleeping in. Still, I stepped softly, wanting to keep this moment to myself.
The refrigerator poured light into the kitchen as I searched for the last drop of orange juice. I could feel my skin tighten the further back into the cold I searched. With my prize in hand I walked to the window to open the curtain. Light dripped its way in. Since a thick canopy of maple leaves helped hide our backyard from the waking sun, the window wouldn’t display the morning for at least an hour. The grass was decorated with small splashes of light that had managed to weave through the trees. Spider silk was trapped, highlighted by beads of water. It decorated the fence with a macabre collage of insect shells.
I could see the remnants of my vegetable garden in the distance. A few tomatoes still clung to life on the vines. The stakes that once held a forest of healthy green plants were now grave markers with summer’s epitaph written by dying vines.
My sabbatical was interrupted by an abrupt bark from my dog. She was standing by the back door waiting, wanting to pounce on the day. When I opened the door, cool air rushed in finding its way into every gap of the clothing I wore. The clumsy paws of my poodle galloped through the yard marking her trail in the damp grass. Nose to the ground, she filtered the confetti of scents in the yard. I watched, amused at the importance of her morning ritual.
The sun was stretching the pools of light in the back yard. Deep purples and blues were becoming more vibrant as the sun warmed the sky. A few red leaves dotted the green carpet of grass. Venus hung low on the horizon, the only survivor left from the night.
Retreating to my living room I drained the last of my orange juice. Its acidic bite poured across my teeth. “Eye opener,” my grandfather called it. He swore it was better than coffee.
My piano slumbered in the corner. The songs trapped inside are waiting patiently. I ran my fingers across the keys, the cracked ivory catching on my fingertips. I wanted to play, but the stillness of the house longed to remain, so I traced the sheet music with my eyes. The melody on the page came to life, pulsing through me, hypnotizing me.
A hallway door crept open. Little feet staggered into the kitchen. Standing on tip-toes she reached for a bowl. Gathering the rest of her breakfast supplies, she sat down at the small wooden table where we always ate. “Good morning, daddy,” she said quietly. I felt the smile grow on my face--this was our morning ritual.
My daughter turned to the door; our dog was standing on its hind feet, fogging the window with its breath. “What are you doing out there?” she asked. Opening the door, the dog lumbered in, tracking blades of cut grass across the floor. Toenails scraping the linoleum, she slid to her water bowl and started lapping up water faster than she could swallow it. “Don’t be so messy,” my daughter remarked. “Wet floors drive mom nutty.”
She quickly finished her breakfast and she put her dishes in the sink. Off to get dressed, she skipped to her room. Re-appearing moments later, she had dressed herself in a red top, pink pants, and bright orange socks. Hopping into the front room she scrambled for the remote. The television popped into existence. Familiar cartoon sound effects filled the room. A kaleidoscope of primary colors swirled on the walls. The television painted the moment with a Disney pallet.
“I love this cartoon, don’t you, daddy?” she asked in a hushed voice. I sat down on the couch and watched a nameless character create havoc on the screen. Looking over, expecting to see my daughter’s smile, I was disappointed to see tears tracing their way down her cheeks. She wept silently. She was staring at a photograph cupped in her hand. Lovingly she traced it with her thumb, “I miss you, daddy, I really do. It’s been six months today.” Tears welled up and poured down her cheeks. Softly I whispered, “I’ve never left.”
****It had to be a ghost story for the contest.****
i still enjoy it.
ReplyDelete