Hazy hot days when the early morning dew disappeared long before sleepy eyes opened, the sun peaking through the window far too early. For me though, it is the perfect alarm clock.The baby pink of my walls look orange with the yellow of morning sunlight. My legs are too short to reach the floor, dangling carelessly from my bed, toes painted iridescent blue. Eight years old, not yet tall enough to reach my own tooth brush from the shelf, only able to watch my eyes alert and curious in the mirror. So instead as most my age would do, I run, feet against the cold wooden floor swinging dramatically around the door frame and onto my mothers bed. Her bed feels safe, perfect from bedtime stories, and midnight songs after nightmares but now it is a trampoline the most effective way to wake her up. I instead discover she is not alone, the five year old body of my brother is curled up beside her peacefully asleep until moments ago. Looking at him is like looking at myself despite being three years apart. We are mirror images of each other, our fathers dark brown hair and our mothers deep blue eyes. I stand seven inches taller, a point of accomplishment. Our mother turns to face the commotion I have created, finger over her lips a gentle “Shhhhh” pointing to the white crib that lies beside her bed. Inside is my sister, barely two months old, a stark contrast to her siblings' with scruffy black hair, and hazelnut eyes. Her warnings come too late as my sister crows sharply disrupting the yellow of the morning, the sunny warmth gone as her cries fill the room.
The sun streams blindingly through the curtains, even my blackout ones can’t seem to stop the summer sun. I struggle to open my eyes, last night's mascara caked onto my eyelids making them heavier than usual. The screaming from downstairs has awoken me, I’ve yet to find out whether their cries of happiness or anger, the product constant antagonizing. The walls of my room are a stark white, blank and empty painted in late December they remain undecorated untouched. The heat of the day has already seeped through the walls, air humid and viscous. My feet rest on the floor, refreshingly cool against my bare feet. I sit perched on the edge of my bed parallel to the mirror that rests on my floor cracked and dirty. Staring at this warped version of myself, my hair is frizzy and tangled, a product of my restless tossing and turning sleep. I stand from the edge of my bed, my knees crack with wear as I navigate the mosaic of clothes, makeup, and homework on my floor, the aches coming from my muscles remind me of yesterday's workout. Crossing the landing I make my way to the bathroom, my mothers current project painting the floor, sickly blue cornflowerish. My toothbrush, unreplaced for far too long, sits next to three others, two of which are dry, which is overwhelmingly not surprising.
Pictures line the stairwell, family gathering, baby pictures in the strawberry patch, ice cream on the beach each a memory that seems eons ago. The yelling has ceased as my footsteps echo and I approach the last step. My mothers love for color and obsession with repainting everything every two years does not leave our downstairs exempt. The kitchen is a melon orange and the living room a pink verging on peach decorated with throw pillows and rugs in varying shades of rainbow. Tapping of nails on the floor approaches from behind, floppy ears and a helicopter tail, shaggy black fur oozing excitement the kind that only comes from a puppy. Turning the corner, I lay eyes on today's alarm clock twelve and eight sheepishly covered in flour and failing at making pancakes. My brother stands at 5’8 dwarfing me, I once dreamed of being 5’10 but at 16 I’ve lost hope for anything taller than 5’4. We’ve grown only more similar as we’ve aged, the striking blue of our eyes has only increased, and now attending the same school it is apparently obvoius that we are siblings. On the other hand the youngest, the wild third child has only become more different. Untamable black hair, kept confined in a braid to prevent rats nests, deep brown eyes and a miraculous 4 foot 10 at only 8 the human embodiment of a tornado.
The scene twists before my eyes, and instead I am the one covered in flour laughing alongside my mother, a Saturday morning eight years ago. Music plays in the background, John Prine, Bob Dylan, Van Morison singing loudly over the “My brown eyed girl lyric” replacing it with blue. Memories that taste like maple syrup, and feel like warm cinnamon air. The absence of this feeling is evident, my mothers car gone from the driveway, working since 5 am. Looking at the scene in front of me, the flour spotted dog, and two of the people drive me crazy, but I love it more than anything and I’m glad this chaos woke me up this morning.
The sun streams blindingly through the curtains, even my blackout ones can’t seem to stop the summer sun. I struggle to open my eyes, last night's mascara caked onto my eyelids making them heavier than usual. The screaming from downstairs has awoken me, I’ve yet to find out whether their cries of happiness or anger, the product constant antagonizing. The walls of my room are a stark white, blank and empty painted in late December they remain undecorated untouched. The heat of the day has already seeped through the walls, air humid and viscous. My feet rest on the floor, refreshingly cool against my bare feet. I sit perched on the edge of my bed parallel to the mirror that rests on my floor cracked and dirty. Staring at this warped version of myself, my hair is frizzy and tangled, a product of my restless tossing and turning sleep. I stand from the edge of my bed, my knees crack with wear as I navigate the mosaic of clothes, makeup, and homework on my floor, the aches coming from my muscles remind me of yesterday's workout. Crossing the landing I make my way to the bathroom, my mothers current project painting the floor, sickly blue cornflowerish. My toothbrush, unreplaced for far too long, sits next to three others, two of which are dry, which is overwhelmingly not surprising.
Pictures line the stairwell, family gathering, baby pictures in the strawberry patch, ice cream on the beach each a memory that seems eons ago. The yelling has ceased as my footsteps echo and I approach the last step. My mothers love for color and obsession with repainting everything every two years does not leave our downstairs exempt. The kitchen is a melon orange and the living room a pink verging on peach decorated with throw pillows and rugs in varying shades of rainbow. Tapping of nails on the floor approaches from behind, floppy ears and a helicopter tail, shaggy black fur oozing excitement the kind that only comes from a puppy. Turning the corner, I lay eyes on today's alarm clock twelve and eight sheepishly covered in flour and failing at making pancakes. My brother stands at 5’8 dwarfing me, I once dreamed of being 5’10 but at 16 I’ve lost hope for anything taller than 5’4. We’ve grown only more similar as we’ve aged, the striking blue of our eyes has only increased, and now attending the same school it is apparently obvoius that we are siblings. On the other hand the youngest, the wild third child has only become more different. Untamable black hair, kept confined in a braid to prevent rats nests, deep brown eyes and a miraculous 4 foot 10 at only 8 the human embodiment of a tornado.
The scene twists before my eyes, and instead I am the one covered in flour laughing alongside my mother, a Saturday morning eight years ago. Music plays in the background, John Prine, Bob Dylan, Van Morison singing loudly over the “My brown eyed girl lyric” replacing it with blue. Memories that taste like maple syrup, and feel like warm cinnamon air. The absence of this feeling is evident, my mothers car gone from the driveway, working since 5 am. Looking at the scene in front of me, the flour spotted dog, and two of the people drive me crazy, but I love it more than anything and I’m glad this chaos woke me up this morning.
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