I'm not entirely sure where this story is going, but I've got some vague ideas in my head. It will be continued, though, and hopefully soon. Nitpicks, as well as overall comments, are very welcome =)
XxxDo
I come down the stairs into a living room that bathes in daylight, the ambiance serene, tiny specks of dust afloat in the warm air. It is a scene so familiar and soothing that my heartbeat slows to a calmer pace, my inner hurricane weakened by the sights of spring. I’m not too fond of the upcoming warmth of summer, or the rainy temperament of fall that will come by in time, but the start of spring is always a beautiful sight nonetheless. Outside the window, flowers are emerging from the warming soil, and I can hear the low cuckooing of the pigeons. The occupants of our terrace birdhouse squeak and chatter with fervor; I can imagine their near-bald heads, mouths wide open as they beg their parents for nurture. I've seen young birds up close before, and found something endearing in their big eyes and wrinkled, bare skin.
On days like these, during moments so very comfortable and wonted, I cannot help but ponder if parts of our lives having the ability to overlap through time and space. It feels as though the identical circumstances allow me to be overcome by the emotions of a day long gone, as though for a second I'm back in the past. Of course, it’s not quite a fold in the time spectrum but rather a figment of my mind, the environment being a trigger for the memory of the exact same sense of tranquility I've experienced before.
My stomach growls, and I cast a lazy glance at the clock. It’s one pm, lunchtime. When I switch on the microwave I smile a little, my mood inexplicably bright. With a twirl of my hand I set the timer, then set off to fetch the ready-made bread from the cupboard whilst I wait for it to finish pre-heating. Slicing open the package with a knife, which I know from experience isn't the smartest of practices for someone who has two left hands, I hear the microwave let out a cheerful ping.
Crumpling up the plastic package I toss it into the trashcan, set the timer to fifteen minutes and place the bread onto that damned hot metal rack inside our microwave – the rack I always do my best to steer clear of. Clumsiness begins to border on idiocy when you grab onto a two-hundred degrees Celsius piece of metal in a momentary lapse of common sense. Yes, I’ve actually done that, by accident. I had shiny lines of smooth, melted skin across the tips of my thumb and forefinger for almost two weeks. That, though, is beside the point.
Watching the bread, and the bloody rack, turn in apathetic circles inside the microwave I tap my foot against the tiles of the floor with mild impatience. Outside, the sun shines brightly, reflecting off the terrace and flower pots.
Sunshine throws a puddle of warm light onto the living room tiles next to the window, and I smile at the memory of a childhood habit. I’d lie on my stomach on the floor of my room, in a cozy rectangle of light just like this one, reading a book or flipping through the pages of a comic. The number of times that I've done this are countless.
Even in the early days of spring, when cold wind still reigns the outdoors, the light alone can seep in and warm the floor. I walk over, slipping my hand into my pocket to find my iPod. Untangling the wires of my earphones, I stop in my tracks, my sock-clad toes a centimeter from the pool of light. As I move into it, I feel as though I've taken a step through the vortex of time, back to my childhood.
Pressing the ear buds into my ears I switch on my music, letting the familiar tune continue mid-song where I’d left off earlier. I sit down, cross legged, savouring the kind warmth of the sunlight on my skin. Narrowing my eyes against the bright reflection of the terrace, I feel sleepy, watching the world through my eyelashes. I can imagine why I did this so often as a kid. It's relaxing; cozy and safe. What’s there not to like about it?
I lie down, the tiles hot against my back, warmth seeping right through the thin fabric of my shirt. The music plays, and I close my eyes, feeling absolutely at ease. Tugging up the legs of my pajama pants I bare my shins to the sun, thinking I might get just the slightest tan out of this. Every moment in the sunlight helps, does it not?
A smile plays around my lips when my mind wanders. What would mom think if she came down the stairs and found me lying here, on the floor in the middle of the living room? I can envision her squeal in horror, then rushing to my side to ask if I'm okay. Her first assumption will be one of a negative nature, thanks to my history of being found on the floor after falling down a flight of stairs or after smacking my head into cupboard doors or low ceiling beams. I’d laugh at her and reassure her that I’m merely being my idiotic self, this time. It would be quite a laugh, I imagine.
The sun on my skin grows more intense, going from cozy warmth to the ever so slightly stinging sensation of actual tanning. I love it, and bask in the warm glow, deciding that I missed summer during the long winter months of snowfall and temperatures below freezing. I’m not usually such a fan of the heat, but I do love relaxing in the garden when the weather’s nice, reading a good book as my skin is kissed by the sun to reach a darker tint.
When I was a kid I never considered the tanning effect of my actions, though I was always tanned as hell by the end of the summer. I smile again. I have so many of the same thoughts, likes, and dislikes as I did back then, but my general perspective has changed. Sometimes it can be a blessing to see the world with more knowledge, and a broader perception, but occasionally I wish I could go back to the days when stars were considered to simply be holes in the sky through which sunlight shone. My childhood ideas of the Earth and her surroundings were basic and logical. To me, at least.
I’m so relaxed that I can feel myself slipping into sleep as I drape my arms across my stomach. The floor is incredibly comfortable, today. Normally this is only the case when I’ve had far too much to drink, and once again I smile, thinking through my drunk antics. I breathe slowly, wondering how long I have until the microwave tells me my lunch is ready. I cannot be bothered to go see how my food is faring, as it would deduct valuable time from this comfortable moment, and yawn. God, I’m so lazy.
Footsteps sound through my music, and I sit up, recognizing them to be those of a child. When Jimmy reaches the bottom step, I’m already getting to my feet. He looks at me, beaming. The boy is always happy to see me. I'm his family's regular babysitter, taking care of him and his older brothers on a weekly basis.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say, then gesture at my clothes as I pull a funny face. “I’m still in my PJ’s, you see?”
He puts his hand to his forehead as he laughs, a childlike sign that speaks volumes about his current opinion of me. His words clarify that. “You’re silly!” he giggles, his voice and laughter so very sincere.
I catch myself smiling at his juvenile display of joy, and walk towards him, kneeling to match his height, then run a hand through his straw-blond hair. “So where’s your dad?”
“Upstairs.” He nods gravely, adding. “The washing dachine is broken.”
“The washing dachine?” I smile a little. “And you’re helping your daddy fix it, then?”
“Yea,” he says it with the that's obvious sigh young kids are so very good at. “my daddy’s borrowing your daddy’s tools.”
I nod, edging him on. It’s adorable when the little man acts pseudo-grown up.
“We don’t have the right tools,” he explains. “because I don’t have them in my toolkit.” He speaks with a serious tone, his brows furrowed in sober thought. “Daddy doesn’t know how to fix the washing dachine unless I help him.”
I laugh again, then slide my hands under his armpits and lift him into my arms as I straighten up, positioning him on my hip. He’s only four, still light enough to be lifted easily. I smile at him. “You’re good at fixing things, then?”
“Yes,” he says it with a giggle. “because Daddy says so. Boys are good at it, but Mommy doesn’t know how to fix anything, ‘cause she’s a woman.”
Ouch, you little sexist. I grin; until the age of six or seven they can get away with saying such things. Their father, on the other hand, seems to have stuck with those views. Nevertheless, I run my hand through his hair again and say. “If that is so... then how come I can fix things?”
He giggles a bit, fidgeting with a loose lock of my hair. “Silly! You're not a woman!”
I snicker. “No? So what am I?”
“Well... you're a girl!” he says it with flailing arms, as though I just asked him the most ridiculous of questions.
I cuddle him, and he wraps his arms around my neck. “When are you coming to stay with us again?”
“Wednesday.” I tell him, then watch his brows float up to his hairline as he thinks. I stroke his cheek. “That's the day after tomorrow.”
His brows come down, furrowing into a frown, his facial expression somewhere between annoyed and disappointed. “But I want you to come tonight!”
“Look.” I point down at my feet with one hand as I walk over to the couch, knowing it'll distract him. My socks are two different colours, as always. “I've got a blue one and a green one, kiddo.”
His hand finds his head again, the annoyance forgotten, his laugh so adorable and contagious that I can't help but smile. “You have different socks!”
“Yep.” I set him down, then tickle him until he screams with laughter. “Do you have two of the same socks?”
“They’re Bob the builder.” he says with a bright grin, then hiccups and laughs at himself. His expression is absolutely endearing, the big shining eyes filled with pure happiness. Children are the epitome of adorable.
^^
