Church and State

Chapter Three

I snuggled into my blanket, basking in the fire place's warm glow. My father sat down beside me holding my favourite childhood book, "Charlotte's Web." I hadn't heard Father read me a book since I was a little girl, probably the age of seven. I missed cozy, reading sessions around the fire. I did not care that I was nineteen years old, story time would always be my favourite time of day.

Father flipped open the pages, landing perfectly on the first page of the first chapter, "Where's Papa going with that Axe,' said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast."

I loved when Father read to me. The sound of his voice hasn't changed one bit. His rich tone and deep vibrato made every word in every book sound so interesting. He is the reason why I started to indulge into the world of books, but for the longest time, only if Father would read them.

Keagan always preferred Mother to read for him. He enjoyed Mother's soft, delicate tone which made every story cheerful sounding, even if it wasn't. I preferred Father, as he made every word have strength and appeal.

Father continued, "Out to the hoghouse,' replied Mrs. Arable. 'Some pigs were born last night."

It always sounded funny though, when Father tried to make his manly voice sound, high-pitched and feminine. It always gave a good laugh. Father read the first three chapters before I let out a soft, mellow yawn. My eyes were beginning to appear droopy.

Father wrapped the blanket around me; lifting me with ease. His steps were soundless; he walked up the stairs even lighter on his feet than Mother ever could. I never understood how it was possible, as he was strong, tall and barred a hefty weight. He gently placed me on my bed.

I sprung up, my eyes wide open. Did I fall asleep? Shit. I glanced over at the clock. It was 6:38am; I only slept through my alarm by eight minutes. I rub my eyes. As my eyes clear from the blur caused by aggressive rubbing, I look at all the papers scattered across the floor.

"And why didn't I clean that up last? Oh yeah, I fell asleep," I grunted at myself.

I focused on gathering all the papers into a neat pile; not crumpling a single paper. I made sure to smooth out every wrinkle in hopes demolish the thought of last night's dream. I didn't need that to burden my day.

I wiggled the perfectly straight pages back into my over stuffed binder. My binder was so close to exploding, two more papers and it might just blow. I slipped on my cozy, fur insulated slippers and headed down the stairs. The wooden stairs clunked underneath me with every step I took. I could never walk as gracefully as Father did.

I placed two pieces of rye bread in the toaster. I used to hate rye bread, but Father loved it. He ate it with his breakfast, every sandwich he ate was on rye, and he even ate it with Mother's delicious pasta dinners. Essentially, I've learned to like it. It isn't half bad. I spread raspberry jam on both pieces, grabbed my coffee and sat in front of the television.

I nibbled on my toast as I turned to TLC. My favourite show was always on at 7am. I watched gorgeous women tried on extravagant wedding dress that complimented their beauty. Some dresses costed a fair price and some that might have required a loan to pay off. I sometimes even imagined myself in those spectacular white gowns walking down isle; I still had troubles imagining without my father by my side.

I finish my toast, leaving my plate on the ottoman as per usual. I'll clean it up after school, well maybe. I sat down in front of my vanity, ready to beat my face with a good layer of makeup. I always wore makeup to school, I never go a day without. It covered my odd, orange-coloured freckles. Everyone says they liked them; I hated them.

I stared into the mirror, patting the palest foundation possibly solid into my skin. I blend and layer the foundation until not a single freckle could be spotted. This made my mother angry, as she says every time, "You are covering what God has blessed you with!"