If I Could Fly. // h.s. au

One

hope-less-ness

                noun             

                                        a feeling or state of despair; lack of hope

                                        "her face bears the expression of utter hopelessness"

Reliving that day was as normal to me as breathing.

When I closed my eyes I could still smell my mom's favorite hot apple cider scented candle burning on the window sill above the kitchen sink. The daisies my dad found for her at a farmers market in Brooklyn a few days before were still in a marbled vase on the dining table, slightly wilted but still vibrantly colorful and full of life. I could hear 'Hey Jude' playing softly from the family room as my dad got ready for work. I remember the color of my mom's blue floral skirt, swishing pleasantly as she bustled about the kitchen, making breakfast for me and my dad. I could still see the mesmerizing sight of the Manhattan skyline burning orange in the crisp autumn sunrise, even from this side of the Brooklyn bridge.

I loved the city then. It was a place of magic and adventure; all the dazzling lights and life at every corner and the undertone of music droning happily in the background following you everywhere you go. My dad loved to surprise my mom and I with a special night out on the town every now and then, treating us to authentic Tai food from a little shack off of fifth avenue, bargaining with shopkeepers in China Town, visiting the zoo. One of my favorite memories was our Central Park escapade that turned into a drenching downpour halfway through. He gave us the full New York City experience. He was always so whimsical and full of life.

"Well, little bird?"

I snapped my attention to my mom. She was standing over the griddle, one hand on her hip and the other holding a spatula.

"Well what?" I asked, looking up from my coloring page, lost in a world of my own.

She laughed. It was one of my favorite sounds to hear. "Blueberry or vanilla?"

"Chocolate chip." I said plainly, adding my most convincing smile for incentive.

She shot me a quizzical look, the laughter from a moment ago still dancing in her beautiful green eyes. "Wasn't a choice."

I shrugged and returned to coloring in my bluebird. "I know."

I could feel her eyes on me for a few more seconds. I glanced up for just a moment to see a small smile playing on her lips. I waited. She gave a curt nod. "Chocolate chip it is."

I didn't try to hide my smile as I concentrated on filling in the last of the bright yellow beak.

I sat back and admired my work. "There."

My mom set a plate of pancakes on the table. I held out my work for her to see.

She nodded thoughtfully. She dramatically flipped her nutbrown hair back and pretended to examine my artwork with an imaginary eyeglass.

"It's me." I told her matter-of-factly.

Amusement sparkled in her eyes. "Is it now?"

I nodded assuredly. "Because I'm 'little bird.'"

She laughed. "You're right, I see it now. The wings are almost exactly identical!"

With this, she reached down and tickled me. I shrieked with laughter and pushed her away.

"Breakfast sure does look delicious," my dad appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around my mom. She throws back her head in laughter as my dad picked her up and swung her around playfully. He finally lets her back to her feet, but not before stealing a kiss.