A Walk Down Ivy Laine

Amongst The Ivy

I want to forget, but if I do, then I'm no better than the murderers themselves.

A soft, insistent tickle graces the arch of my feet---growing intensely, forcing me to stop playing hopscotch with the sandman and run up the golden dunes back in to reality resting at the peak. My heavy eyes flutter open, and I peer directly into similar gold-speckled ones.

"Wake up Ivy."

A grumpy noise leaves my throat as I roll over with the blankets to hide.

"Morning gogga. Did you sleep ok?" She swats my butt playfully.

Bug. It was always bug. I can't remember a time when I wasn't my mothers' little bug, or even really why I was my mother's bug.

"Moo...ommy," I mumble through a yawn.

She chuckles at me, "come now, breakfast is almost ready. Willy is taking you to school today in the Bakki so we have to hurry." I hear the door click shut again. Gone.

Bacon and toasted bread find their way to my senses after a minute. The delicious aroma seeps and temps poor little foolish me still in bed.

Breakfast can wait, though, my favorite sun dance in the morning was just starting.

The sun glinting off of the antique white and gold carousel on the opposite shelf is mesmerizing. The tiny jewel covered horses, lions, giraffes and bears sparkle; casting tiny rainbows all over the walls. My fingers suddenly itch to twist the tiny golden key near the base and release its cheerful melody; sending me back to that one night at the ballet with my mom in the city of Johannesburg. The graceful long-legged swans leaping, balancing and twirling crimson, pink and black to haunting piano melodies.

"Ivy..." mommy calls from under the door, "five-minute warning."

I make a face and drag the covers off, letting them crumble to the floor.

After dragging my long white knee-socks up all the way and flattening the checkered red and navy-blue short-skirt, I grab my matching navy blue knitted sweater with my schools' golden-lion mascot sewn into the upper left-hand pocket; St Joshua's Private School est. 1928. I take my time brushing my teeth and combing out my long strawberry-blonde hair. The red ribbons today instead of the navy-blue or yellow ones fished out from the jewelry box on the counter and I'm off to the kitchen.

A soft mustard yellow covers the walls. Unfortunately, you can't see much of the paint in the kitchen though because in every nook and cranny are either potted plants with vines or more potted plants with exotic looking flowers or more potted plants stacked with vegetables. And then hanging plants. Either way it's not really much of a kitchen, but mommy is happy.

Riaan is smiling in his highchair across the table. I make a silly face as I sit down, resulting in a giggly chirp. Instantly its shock and then panic when he figures out once again that his little hands aren't coming undone as a result of sticky syrup. The pre-squeal hiccupping begins.

As I slide back my chair to help him, mommy waves me back down with a dish rag, "I'll get him. Eat some breakfast before it gets cold."

I plop back down and pour myself some orange juice while mommy sorts things out. With Riaan happy again, she goes back to the range.

Three thick strips of greasy crispy bacon drop onto my plate from the pan aloft by my head; crackling deliciously upon impact. They complete the nutritionally un-balanced breakfast I love so much this morning. A plate of salted-buttery toast sit in a neat pile to the right. A larger tin-foil covered plate to the left---waffles. Jug of maple syrup in between and freshly-picked strawberries covered in sweet sugar just kiddie-corner. There's also a covered pot of Mielie-pap, jug of milk and small slab of butter in a flat crystal dish set aside. It must be my birthday.