Week Five of 52 Stories: Rex
Posted on 07. Feb, 2009 by Deb in A Little More Focused, As the Web Turns
This is for the 52 Stories group on Flickr where we take one picture a week and write a story. This is mine for Week Five.
All was quiet in the Smouse House.
I remember that it was a Sunday and the sun had barely peeked over the horizon and had not yet risen enough to bring light into the house through the micro-gaps in the mini-blinds. The girls, typical teens in their sleep habits, were still in that deep REM sleep. They wouldn’t wake for hours. Animals, as was there demand, had been given their morning meal and the coffee pot was dripping. I was waiting for my first cup of the French Roast mixed with just the right amount of milk. Patience is not always my friend during this wait, but I had been trying her out of late, and resisted my urge to use the “drip and pour” method as was frequent during a busier morning. But it was Sunday and I had no where I had to be at any particular time.
My head was still on the filaments of the dream I had woken to as I dug into my still sleepy mind to pick out more details beyond the feelings of softness and warmth. It’s harder to remember when you jolt awake. And the dream was too delicious not not savor as I would a fine piece of chocolate. So I stood in the dark kitchen with readied cup, waiting for the signaling beep as I took in the smell of the fresh coffee with the warmth of my thoughts. It was almost automatic pilot when I poured and mixed into my favorite cup of late, the one from Mystic Seaport. I took the first sip standing there at the counter before wandering into the living room to enjoy my first cup in the silence.
And as I sat on the love seat, hot cup of coffee in hand, my leg brushed something between the sofa and the love seat. My heart went up and my throat and all soft and warm feelings were gone in an instant when I realized that something was there. And then I saw that it was only Rex.
Damned. Kids.
Well, kid. As Rex belongs to my oldest. My oldest who, at 17, loves dinosaurs more than any 7 year old boy. And she had positioned this 2-foot high creature, in all his plastic glory, just peeking between the sofa and the love seat. Peeking just enough to cause me to startle.
The house was still dark and silent, but my head wasn’t. Lost was the softness of the dream and it was replaced with feelings of amusement and a different kind of softness. That love that a parent feels no matter how horrible she been the day before. Pieces of their personality that you always liked – like this love of dinosaurs at the edge of adulthood – pushing away the feelings of frustration at hormonal rants and refusals to take out the trash.
I patted Rex on the head and enjoyed my first cup of coffee in the quiet of the morning. Where everyone was sleeping. And everything was right.