Crash Into You

School and Steaming Biscuits

I wake up to the familiar smell of a damp pavement. I look out the window glass to see clouds of humid mist rolling down the mountains. It must have rained last night. I roll my eyes and huff, falling back onto my bed with a loud springing. My arms cross over my chest in defiance towards Mother Nature. It has rained in Kettleville for five days straight and if I see one more gray sky or a plump rain drop I will legit lose my mind. I sulk towards the wall observing the yellow wallpaper in a fake interest.

A big splatter of precipitation thumps my colored window. That's it! I'll google all the neighboring insane asylums later. I usually love the rain. It makes Kettleville turn into a damp, misty wonderland. The green of the trees turns into watercolor of emerald. After the third day of this continuous rain, the watercolor turns into a muddy, brown, wet, clump of nature and sloshy puddles.

The scent of bacon and gravy wafts up my nostrils and I can taste the breakfast in my watering mouth. My heart clouds my thoughts as I trump down the stairs in a zombie-like state. The boards of the wooden stairs creak loudly as my feet bare down on them.

I spot the kitchen from the base of the staircase and a large smile plasters my face. I can see my mom working at the marble island in the middle of the cooking room. Her curly strands of hair fall on her face in swirling wisps of thin, brown hair. Her face is tanned and her tongue is out in concentration. There is a pan of biscuits on the counter and she inspects every one of them in an unnecessary observation. My giggle interrupts her train of thoughts and she stands to face me with a smile. I hold my hands up in a mock defensive behavior and say

"The biscuits didn't steal the last Oreo, I did. Don't hold it against me!"

She rolls her cobalt eyes and pops her left hip and places a hand on it.

"Just making sure my baking is up to par for my lovely daughter." She says with a playful tone of hurt in her voice. I take one out of the pan, but I feel a sharp pain in my index finger and thumb.

"You can't grab biscuits that came straight from the oven you moron!" She laughs as I suck on my red fingers. I huff and get one out with my fork. Minimum contact with my fingers. I split it open and visible ribbons of heat spring from it and rise to the plastered ceiling. I continue to break the bread into small pieces until I have a mountain of biscuit bites on my plate. Mom comes over and ladles on glorious creamy gravy the color of the milky sky outside. I pepper the mountain of sausage, the creamy mixture, and flaky bread. I smile at mom with a silent thanks. She kisses my cheek and leaves.

I don't ask where she's going because I already know.

My mother is a woman of strict schedule. She wakes up, puts on her daily attire of a gray pantsuit, creates an awesome two thumbs up breakfast (No seriously, it's the best... no joke), and she leaves to her job at the local Citizens Bank. This is how it's been for as long as I can remember, and I love it. My mom is not my guardian, she is my best friend. After dad died she was my rock. I was the ground holding her up.

Dad, like so many others in Kettleville have given their lives to protect America. I was two when dad had died. I wish I could say that I remembered him, but I didn't. That was fact... Much like the fact that I needed to get to school. On that note I wash my plate off, turn all the house lights off, and make my way to my '95 Jeep. The small car is perfect for me. I turn the radio on to the local station playing Umbrella by Rihanna. I raise my eyebrows in recognition to the older song. I start to bob my head and sing to the stuttering chorus. I try to let the music get my head off my future worries. ... My first day of senior year.