I rolled out of bed
Cocooned in a layer of regret slick with cold sweat
The sheets piled at the base of my bed lay as tangled as the knots in my stomach
I gingerly placed my feet on the cool floor boards
The chill pierced through the soles of my feet and up through the rest of me
I stood in front of my mirror and stared at the tired eyes looking back at me
Furiously rubbing the heels of my palms against my eyes to erase the guilt reflected in them
I left the room and made sure to shut the door as quietly as possible
But the hollow slamming from last night echoed back at me
And brought with it a recollection of our argument
Shooting red hot glares at each other with our eyes
Reveling in frustration for no other reason but to feel the anger burning in our guts
Sarcastic words and hurtful shouts swirled around us
And bits of glass raining down when frustration became too much to control
Clenching our fists tighter and tighter by our sides as if it would help hold back the tears
We were convinced our irrational anger would sooth us in the end
But we went to bed dragging guilt and shame behind us
By now the fire has died down leaving only choked up ‘sorry’s and cold toes
I passed your room
Door shut tight - locking out any chance of reparation
The living room felt as if it had been frozen in time
Left just as it was the night before in order to honor an occasion that now felt years past
I felt like a ghost wandering an abandoned movie set where it didn’t belong
Worn furniture designed to look lived in and loved in
Remained soulless and haunted by cold stiffness
As if the idea of human occupancy was just a myth told by the old grandfather clock
A cracked picture frame face down on the floor presented the only proof that last night had occurred
Looking back with my eyes locked on the frame - I stumbled out of the living room only to find the kitchen left just as untouched and desolate
The walls and tiles held their breath
Even the refrigerator’s hum was smothered by a heavy stillness
Desperate to warm myself, I began making our morning coffee
Black for me and cappuccino for you
I pulled open the cabinet and it squeaked just as I heard the creaking of your bedroom door opening
We both froze as we sensed eachothers presence
Scared to meet your eyes I continued about my business
Rattling coffee grounds covered up the sound of your steps
Unsaid words were swallowed by sloshing water
Thick milk covered the deep mahogany beneath it, but failed to cloud over my worries
Still unable to offer you my eyes, I passed you your cup instead
Two pairs of hands wrapped around hot mugs, served as the only heat able to break through the cold
Glaring into the steam rising from my cup, I built up my courage the best I could
I found some relief in the thought that you were likely suffering under the same silence I was
I breathed in the comforting coffee scent and it gave me the strength to set things right
I lifted my head, with apologies threatening to bubble from out of my mouth
My eyes registered your bed mussed hair, then your sheepish eyes, and finally a foamy white mustache across your upper lip
You stared at me strangely as I burst into laughter
You questioned my outrageous behavior but I could barely form words from between my peals of laughter
You frantically turned to the toaster to check your reflection
The distortion of your features in the curved reflection only added to my humor
Instead of wiping the milk from your lip you joined me in laughter
Our giggles told me that there was hope of being okay again
As happy as we were, I knew an apology urgently needed to be made
“I’m so sorry I said those things.”
“It’s okay. We all have bad days. Thank you for the coffee.”
“Anytime Mom. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
We grew silent again
But this time the quiet was peaceful and warm
We smiled at each other over the tops of our mugs, each big gulp bringing us closer back together
No fight could ever be so big that it couldn’t be fixed with our morning cups of coffee
…..oh, and a milk mustache helps to
YOU ARE READING
Tacenda
Poesíatacenda (n.) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence