Young Writers Society

It was early Wednesday when the Smiths awoke. Claire Smith had most likely already left the house, she had to rise earlier in order to make it to work on time. Truthfully it was Michael Smith, who woke at five every morning, pissed, then lay in the dark for the next three hours worrying, rose the first, but if you asked him, he’d probably say he didn’t want to wake his wife before she had to be woken, or he’d say he liked to watch the marine layer softly creep over the horizon. It was soothing to him; he’d watch as it slowly devoured the coast, then each proud skyscraper of the downtown Los Angeles skyline, and then skate softly over the lazy green hills until it came to rest on his bedroom window and the landscape became a mute white. After his wife had gone, he would rise from bed and make his way from the end of the hallway to the stairwell and upstairs where the milky morning light filtered through the wide windowed doors leading to the balcony. It seemed to cling to the house. On the day bed dominating the living room. Across the fake leather sofa, and across from it, the shaggy worn down lazy-boy the boys used to play on. He’d have to wake them soon.

At one side of the room, glued to the balcony windows were the cats. One was a skinny black thing with a white stripe running from his neck down through the underside of his belly and cute white mittens on each of his little paws. The other was a cloudy furred cat, with white and gray splotching his coat, who had grown plump over few months the Smiths had adopted him. Michael loved cats, he never fully admitted it, but he did, and the two that the boys had picked out were perfect. The black one was named Shiva the Destroyer, he had picked that name himself, and the other was named Zilean. The boys had named that one. It was an inside joke, or at least they called it that. Nowadays Zilean would greet him every morning, just after mom had left, by burrowing under the blankets with him and purring until he was forced to get up. He loved them and he’d let the whole house know. The way they woke him almost made him forget about the hours he’d spent lying in the dark. 

He supposed it was something that simply happened. Something that came with the responsibility of being a parent, or more, of life. It was the best and the worst. At least that was how he saw it. There was the joy of children. The joy of youth and love and those fleeting moments when the whole family had gone to the Santa Monica Pier one summer or when the boys, still young, had run around the house laughing and screaming “Running! Running!” It was a joy Michael had never experienced before. The kind that made you laugh through your words. The happiness would never change, but the boys would. They were high schoolers now. Practically college freshmen and they needed to act as such. He needed to be there for them. Prepare them for college, pay for college. That was where the worry crept in. That was why he pushed them. So one day he could look up to them. There was a time when he was their age. It reminded him of how far he’d come, and with that was the knowledge that the end was closer than the start now. He remembered what he’d told the boys at the gym earlier that week. Something about his parents and watching them grow older. Watching his mother, then thirty, and all her wants and needs and insecurities. And then having children himself and watching them grow and loving them and being a father to them. He remembered a few months back, before the new year his sister had sent a file full of videos of his late father. He’d brought the boys down, took them from their games, and sat with them in the dark watching his father recount stories to a very young Aunt Mattie. About his life and all the wonderful little nuggets he could still recount. At least that was how Michael saw it. Yes he’d been there. It reminded him of how far he’d come. Quickly checking the clock, Michael saw it was time to wake the boys.