Edited: 11/18/23
May 7, 2011
There is a slight chill in the air as the smell of coffee and the sounds of rock drift softly in through the crack in my door. This is the usual way I awake from my slumber on a lazy Saturday morning. My body is still heavy with tiredness, but my eyes don't threaten to close. Instead, they stare up at the ceiling above my head, connecting dots as thoughts swirled behind them. Sometimes those thoughts would pause, being pushed away by the Eagles' vocals coming into my room.
The thoughts, however, are all about Steve. The man from the subway and the newest addition to our floor. The distant look in his eyes float around his unwavering attentiveness and the sound of his voice whispers from the depths of my memory.
The DJ's voice is coming out of Dad's radio when I finally pull myself out of bed and step out into our main living space. He is going on about recent events, about an artifact that had created a crater to form in the deserts of New Mexico. Apparently, a cause has not been found as of yet, but experts have their theories.
Padding into the bathroom, the DJ's voice becomes muffled against the closed door. Apparently, he is a mythology buff and the artifact, he believes, belongs to a god from the Norse. It's unlikely since gods live only in tales, but it never really stops people from speculating. Honestly, it's probably just some really elaborate prank a group of people put together- maybe it was even the center of some kind of protest.
My hair is a rat's nest. Working a brush through the dark strands, my mind wanders to the days Mom used to braid them. It was the only time we spent together, the only time guilt didn't drive her from touching me.
I miss those times.
Dad is sitting on the living room couch when I step out of the bathroom. A red pen is pressed to his temple, a habit of his whenever he grades. He teaches a fourth grade class at a nearby private school, constantly raving about how bright his students are, but also complaining about the amount of work they are expected to do. He is a firm believer of letting kids be kids, but the curriculum that he has to teach isn't very fond of that ideal.
"Good morning, Dad" I say, crossing the living space to the kitchen. It sports black countertops, wooden cabinets and a stainless steel fridge that matches the sink. The black and white checkered linoleum is starting to peel away at my feet and a rectangular light lights up the whole space. Against the wall on the far side of the kitchen is a small card table Dad once promised he was going to replace with a real breakfast table.
A table of course, that was never bought.
"Good morning, Sweetheart." Dad smiles as he looks away from the paper he is currently grading.
It's hard to believe that the man I live with was the same man that raised me. I didn't realize how unhappy he was until we were halfway across the country on our way to settle into the unknown.
Somehow Dad looks younger now then he did when we were still living on the west coast. The wrinkles that clings to his face aren't as deep, and his shoulders don't seem to hunch into themselves. His smiles and laughter almost daily too, when they were once a rarity. The only thing that could possibly give away his age is the way his dark hair is now peppered in gray, and that he loves dressing like an old college professor from a nineties sitcom.
"There's a breakfast sandwich in the fridge. Yvonne dropped it off on her way to work this morning"
Yvonne is the next door neighbor. She works odd hours as a waitress at a nearby diner while she studies to become a real estate agent.
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