So I had my first date of the semester last Friday night with Drew. He told me he was interested in me, and I assured him I shared the sentiment. We have hung out every day since. He is way cool and chill aaaand I like him. I'm having fun getting to know him. Also, he is a great hand-holder.
Anyway!
Here they are.
Bedtimes
Of the few rooms in our house, the room I was most fond of was the room I was least allowed. It appeared a vast room, filled with adult apparatus: an ironing board, my father’s briefcase, my mother’s sky blue slip that, at the time, I associate with princesses or figure skaters, but would later realize to be lingerie. But more than this, the room felt larger than it was because it was filled with a sense of love and safety, more at times than it seemed possible for it to hold. I was sure at times that if I ran a finger across a piece of furniture it would deposit a film of affections upon its tip, that if I lifted the bed skirt I would see that feeling collected in the corners like so many dust bunnies. While it permeated our entire home, my parent’s bedroom seemed the source.
Of the few rooms in our house, the room I was most fond of was the room I was least allowed. It appeared a vast room, filled with adult apparatus: an ironing board, my father’s briefcase, my mother’s sky blue slip that, at the time, I associate with princesses or figure skaters, but would later realize to be lingerie. But more than this, the room felt larger than it was because it was filled with a sense of love and safety, more at times than it seemed possible for it to hold. I was sure at times that if I ran a finger across a piece of furniture it would deposit a film of affections upon its tip, that if I lifted the bed skirt I would see that feeling collected in the corners like so many dust bunnies. While it permeated our entire home, my parent’s bedroom seemed the source.
Still, it was their sanctuary, a place they attempted to keep to themselves, which, of course, proved fruitless more times than not. Some of these times were lazy Sunday mornings; bleary-eyed, one of the younger kids would stumble in, scramble on the bed. Dad would grumble half-heartedly that it was too early, and couldn’t we just go back to bed on the one morning a week he got to sleep in? But he only pretended to mind so much, and they would snuggle up to Mom and wait for her to rise and cook breakfast. That child was inevitably followed by another, and soon my parent’s bed would be covered in squirming bodies and laughter.
Most often we would congregate in the evenings. Arrayed in pajamas, a tooth brush hanging out of a mouth or two, we would each settle into our spots of preference. My favorite was the strong crook of my father’s arm, where I could rest my head on his chest and listen to his breathing, his voice originating and reverberating in his ribs. If this spot was unavailable (as it often was), I would contentedly settle for sprawling across the foot of the king bed, head and arms hanging off, fingering the lighter spots in the carpet where some small one (could it have been me?) had tried to bleach it. Then, all would grow still as my mother or father cracked the spine of some thrilling tale: The Yearling, The Little House on the Prairie, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia. We were all carried to a world where nothing existed but that room, its maroon carpeting, white walls, and mismatched furnishings. And the air above us sparkled with imagining, dreams, adventures, pixie dust exhaled by the steady voices of our parents.
Spring Song
Two girls sit on a patch of grass that stretches across the center of a courtyard. The buildings that surround it enclose students in classrooms and lectures, busy taking notes or drifting off. These girls will soon join them, but for now they sprawl on the grass, heads close, eyes shut against the bright glare of the spring sun. The grass prickles their necks and bits of exposed midriff. It smells crisp and sweet, like apples. The air is fresh and breezy, cooling their sun-warmed skin.
The girls don’t speak; after a minute or so, lazy, light chords waft up through the air, sprouting like so many indolent daisies from the ukulele one of them holds. Feet tick in time, corners of mouths twitch up. An airy voice starts to sing of the world, trees, and bees, its owner moving her head, eyes still closed. One girl strums, the other sings; together they form the song, the sound for which this spring day so longed.
