Unsettled

Becalm

The clang of pots and pans rouses you, the sounds of movement from your kitchen pulling you from your much needed sleep long before you really should be leaving the dream world. You extract yourself from the bed, bemoaning the fact that your son inherited the early morning gene from his father, as well as the decision that had placed said man in your kitchen making the aforementioned ruckus. This is not the path towards restfulness – the goal that had been the reasoning behind allowing Tom to spend additional time in close proximity after your release from the hospital. Closer proximity, at any rate.

You test your voice on your way out of the bedroom, avoiding a glance in the bureau mirror. If you look anything close to the way you feel you're better off blissfully unaware. Your throat still protests being used, still sore from all the coughing and tubes despite all the many cups of soothing liquids Tom has served up over the past two days. There is still a raspy quality to your voice, the gravel apparently sticking with you for yet another day.

Walking into the kitchen ready to scold, you find Tom at the stove – but he isn't the source of the noise. It is Max, seated in the floor at Tom's feet – stationed closer to the sink than the stove – that is the culprit. Son is playing with his own set of pans while father attends to the ones filled with food and subjected to heat.

The ability to plate a complete meal without anything going cold always was a talent of his... Another random detail unforgotten. Even with his son underfoot he seems to be on track for pulling off his magic. You stand beyond the threshold to the room, just out of sight, taking a minute to enjoy and absorb the scene. The kitchen is a bit of a mess but his fastidiousness will translate to it being clean before he abandons the room and turns that focus towards the rest of the day. That much about him will never change.

One of your kitchen towels hangs from Tom's back pocket, another draped over his shoulder. Perhaps, you assume, his helper is the reason for the use of more than one dishtowel? You're sure to get the full report sooner or later. The next thing you spot out of place is a wooden spoon, abandoned on the counter top, though close at hand. Tom is occupied with the eggs, using a spatula to scoot them around the pan, so what is the spoon for?

"Mummy!" A dull gong of metal on metal follows the outburst. You've been spotted. Max launches himself up off the floor, arms outstretched to show his desire for a hug. He, too, has a wooden spoon – his isn't abandoned but clutched within his left hand.

As you scoop Max into your arms you chuckle out a greeting, "Good morning, munchkin."

He grips the back of your neck with his free hand and spins, half attentive to you, half focused on his father. "Don't worry Mummy. I'll protect you from the pirate."

"A pirate? In my kitchen?" Curious but happy to play along, you follow Max's eye line to focus on his father.

Tom gives you a short nod, clearly pleased to find you smiling. He reaches over to claim his own spoon, the spatula he had been using already released to sit on the provided plate on the counter. "A pirate captain, no less." He winks before continuing, "But Max, mate. It isn't the beautiful siren that needs protection from me. We're the ones in danger, you and I."

That gives Max pause. He wiggles in your arms, turning his head to look from one parent to the other. His Mum – a danger? He can't quite reason that out, despite his father's insistence, even if it is just playacting.

"She'll capture us with her song, mate. Well – it's too late for me." He lifts his spoon up and considers the handle before pointing it in your direction, "I've been under her spell since the first I heard her voice."