The day I re-met my Father
Sunlight streams rudely through a gap in my curtain. The smell of fresh cut grass and freesias too sweet for the morning. My eyes struggle open, finally alighting on the only photo of my Father and I.
She is in the kitchen. Her angelic voice twinkling up the stairs and twirling under my door. The static from the small radio is barely audible over her. She sounds happy.
I pull open my wardrobe door. A treasure trove of luxurious fabrics strains against hangers. I pull out a deep red ruby dress, long and feminine. It clings to my body. The satin-like fabric cool against my skin.
“You look lovely”, she says. Whisk raised in her hand. It drips egg, the shells ooze behind her on the bench. A pinch of salt and pepper. Thick crusty bread drowning in the mixture. The frying pan dances with hot butter, ready to receive the first piece of French toast.
“Everything’s packed, it’s going to be great”, she says. I nod, barely aware of her words. Our cases lie packed and stacked, lined up against the wall.
I had spent much of the night before packing. Each item of clothing worn in my imagination against island backdrops. I poured fake smelling conditioner and shampoo into little bottles. It glistened as it glooped out.
She turns to face me again. Spatula annotating her words, crusted with cooked batter. Her face glows red from the heat of the stove top.
“I have a surprise for you” she says. And I know. I know what it is. And so I sit at the table and wait for breakfast.
Father's Hands Holding Baby's Hands
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"What a lovely story! It's sunny but raining in tiny faint drops here. Reading about preparations for an island holiday was a lovely as to start the morning. Thank you!"
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