Some Prose for Mothers Day (Completed)

 Annette awoke to the music of the morning. A meadowlark warbled its distinctive tune somewhere outside, and was promptly joined by the heckling of the magpies, lying in wait for breakfast. The customary fast paced thu-thudding accompanied by steady thump moving down the stairs. Most uniquely to her life, the daily orchestra of pans in the kitchen began to sound. It was zen, in it’s own way. Like relaxing wind chimes. CRASH! Very obnoxious windchimes. CLANG CrrRRhhh clunk. In a tornado.

As she lay there, listening to the warming symphony, she relaxed into the lull of half remembered dreams, reveling in her day off. She didn’t even have to open her eyes today if she didn’t want to, and while she knew she wouldn’t get away with that, she could still pretend for the moment. The warm bed caressed her, bidding her to stay, cuddle with the blankets in that perfect trench in the bedding that formed overnight. Delightfully tempting, but if she stayed too long, she’d have to wrest control of the music from him, because Heaven help us if we don’t wake up to Gypsy Kings at full blast at least once a week... Too late.

Spanish lyrics drifted out of the kitchen, signaling that breakfast was well underway. Well, that he had finally decided what cookbook to pull out, open the page to, and then completely ignore anyway. She sighed and opened her eyes, looking up into the gentle morning light. That was one of the best things about having the house face face south, the sun didn’t get straight into your eyes. Unless someone left the curtain open on the side window, she remembered as she turned to the left, temporarily blinding herself.

Jobee, jobo detekederdo... Annette, not for the first time in her life, wished she had a firmer grasp of Spanish, or had at least looked through the lyrics to that song. It probably would have been easier to sing along with if she knew what it meant. Something about love and a girl named Nina. Groaning, she rolled her way out of bed. That gentle sting in her lower back presented itself, the pull of muscles that didn’t want to wake up, but she tuned it out. The mass of hair that suddenly flipped into her eyes was harder to ignore, but she managed through sheer force of will. Stepping down, her foot landed in something fluffy. And angry at being disturbed.

“Sorry!” she yelped at the mewling cat. I swear, if he didn’t want to be stepped on, then he shouldn’t spend so much effort finding the perfect place to be in the way. She gave him an affectionate pet behind the ear anyway and pulled her hand away before he could bite it. The slog to the shower was so much faster without clothes, one of the better advantages to having an empty nest. That thought drew her attention to the office, previously her sons room. Before any longing could take hold, it was pushed out of the way by exasperation at the stack of paper mosh that had managed to topple over and seemed to be frozen in place, as if it had been caught crawling towards the living room. Probably the cat again.

She rolled her eyes and moved back towards the shower, but hesitated. A mischievous grin spread into her face, as she turned to the stereo and hit play. Now it was a battle of wills, and while she was in the shower, she couldn’t hear either song. The dulcet tones of Norah Jones began drifting out into the house to wage war as she closed the door behind her. I waited till I saw the sun...  and flicked on the fan for extra protection. Climbing into the shower, she turned the hot water knob all the way, and gave a momentary shriek as meager splash of cold hit her. Well! That’s one way to wake up. Her heels bounced on the floor outside the door, waiting for the water to heat up. Feeling the shift from arctic glacier to flowing volcano, she maneuvered her hand in to turn the cold on, ever so slightly. For whatever reason, this particular shower had always vexed attempts at anything less than subtlety where the cold was involved, shifting from fire to ice with the slightest provocation. Getting in and pointedly avoiding the drain, she leaned into the cascading warmth, drinking it into her bones. The gentle pull of muscles eating the heat heartily, drawing it down the spine, it was indescribable and addictive. Paired with the feeling of the soft water, like a permanent breeze that added to the body instead of feeling like it was pulling away, she would stay there forever if it was possible. All too soon (thirty minutes later), she felt clean and relaxed, waking up all over again.

Heading to brush her teeth, she noticed that the Gold Bond foot powder had toppled over in the cabinet. She shook it off and ignored it, putting the paste on the brush. Then, sighing, she turned around to place it back on the shelf. It wouldn’t do to just leave it there after all. It readily became apparent why it had tipped over, since there wasn’t any real space for it on the shelf. Moving some of the items out, she pushed all the less useful (when did we get this bottle of massage oil? Wasn’t that seven years ago?) and more cumbersome items (Is this protein powder? Why is it even in the bathroom?) to the back. After emptying most of the front, she threw several mostly empty bottles, and a few that smelled offensive, into the trash, and stacked everything back in. Clapping her hands once at a job well done, she rinsed them off and opened the door.

The stereo had already fired all its acoustic ammunition and had shut itself off. She grabbed the robe that was sprawled over his sleeping chair and shrugged it on. As an afterthought, she grabbed one of the towels hanging inside the bathroom and wrapped it around her hair. She didn’t want to deal with it all today, but leaving it without drying was begging for frizz and tangles. Her measured step rang through the stairs, thump-thump-thump, landing in a great thud at the bottom. One day they were going to have to reinforce that brace, it always sounded horrible when someone hit it. Behind her, a tentative bump-pause-bump was slowly making its way to the party. Once they were clear, the rapid thud-thud-thud of stairs taken faster than they should be sounded out.

And there he stood, looking at home in a way he rarely did elsewhere, leaning over the stove with heavy contemplation over some grey bubbling mush. Without looking, he reached into the spices, spinning the rack, and grabbed something. He read the label, frowned, and grabbed the cannister next to it before dumping some into the mix. His objective apparently completed, he turned to her with that wide honest smile.

“Good Morning honey! Sleep ok?”

She smiled and mumbled, grabbing the cup of coffee he’d already poured for her, and took a sip. A bit more life flowing through her veins, she said back “Morning honey, I slept alright. You?”

He shrugged and held his smile, but she wasn’t buying it. “Eh.” he said, and nothing more was needed. “Would you like anything for breakfast?” he said, gesturing to the carton of eggs and the grey substance of unknown origin and eldridge composition.

“How about some hot cereal? Do we have any seven-grain left?” She opened the fridge absently, already knowing that there wasn’t anything quick and breakfastable inside. The odd colors of adventures in eclectic ingredients greeted her, and she pulled the half-n-half out past a particularly striking purple-orange mixture. He chuckled behind her, reaching for her customary heavy hot grain oatmeal which he had already set out on the counter, and starting the laborious process of adding water and tossing it into the microwave.

Milking the coffee to taste, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the brew. He had pulled out the french press, and while she still balked at paying that much for such a breakable coffee maker, some days she couldn’t question the results. That rich, smooth taste that left her mouth dry in just the right way, with just the hint of bitter over the top. Her caffeinated revelry was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. On instinct, she picked it up, chastising herself internally for not letting the machine get it. “Hello, this is Annette.”

“Hello, is Virginia there?” a timid voice asked at the other end of the line. Here we go she thought. Must be a new one in the call room.

“This is she.” She managed to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Mostly. A little bit.

“Yes, uh, this is gffrffl. (Why do they insist on hiring people who mutter on phones, she mused in her mind.) We were wondering if you would like to volunteer to come in today.”

She resisted the sigh. It was difficult, but she managed. She resisted the urge to yell at him, no need to kill the messenger. She even managed to resist just hanging up. She was in a good mood, and despite their attempts to ruin that, she didn’t feel like being rude today. “No thanks, I’m enjoying my day off.” She did emphasize the point however.

Sufficiently cowed, the caller hastily wished her a nice day and hung up. As she hung up, she smiled. That was pretty satisfying actually. She sipped at her coffee. Coffee tastes better with the fear of the defeated trespasser she decided. A loud beep came from the corner of the kitchen where foaming and hissing had presided, and he pulled the bowl of steam and that pale scent that lingered on the edge of consciousness. She grabbed the honey, and after a moments thought, headed out to the porch. He’d join her eventually, once whatever he was doing was experimented into submission. Sitting in the chair and placing the bowl on the table, she looked out over the yard. The blues of flax and the yellows of assorted flowers she didn’t need to memorize greeted her, and the gentle trickling sounds of the river washed over her ears. For all its maladies, this place had its paradise, and she was bound and determined to soak up every ounce of it for the week.

He came out shortly and sat abreast of her, omelet in hand, smothered in a grey sauce with dark bits of mushroom and sausage in it. Absently, she used her fork to steal some, and equally absently, he fought her utensil off after the second bite. They sat in companionable silence, occasionally broken only by those conversational pieces that serve a purpose, but when you try to think back on them, didn’t matter enough to even remember. Just part of the being. She chose to ignore the feel of black fur sliding under her legs, and the brown eyes that looked up at her mournfully. He broke down and slipped a chunk of egg to the pleading green eyes that sat their head on his lap. They would learn to not give into the dogs begging eventually. Maybe. Probably not.

There were things to do today. Things that needed to be done. Stuff that had piled up over the week, and daily pieces of life that hadn’t yet been accomplished. And yet, as she sat there, stroking the black fur under her feet, she looked out and felt like being free. She turned to him with a gleam in her eye, and broke the gap of the standing silence.



“Hey, you want to go to swimming in the river?”