a memory and storms
When I was a little girl, I used to get up with my dad almost every morning about five o'clock. He left for work around five thirty, quarter to six. I would sit in my nightgown in the bathroom and watch him shave. My father shaves the old fashioned way, with a mug, a disc of soap, and a brush to lather it up. I would perch on the rim of the bathtub and watch him. The smell of Old Spice permeated the air. We would talk. Then I would sit at the table with him in the kitchen while he ate his breakfast. He would leave to go to work, and I would go back to bed.
He never once woke me up. I felt/heard him get up and so I got up too.
I don't remember a single thing that we talked about, I just have these memories, like snapshots in my head.
By the time I got back from school, he was leaving again.
But he was always home for dinner. I was always hungry. I sat next to him at the dinner table, facing my mother, who sat across from me.
Every single memory of dinner I have, we were always sitting this way. Who decided that?
Memories of my family have been haunting me lately, and I don't know why.
Some people would find a little girl getting up at five in the morning to spend time with her father sweet and endearing, something to remember with fondness.
I see a sad little girl hungry for some of her father's time, yearning for some notice that was unprovoked by school or a show or his own method of choosing sides and demanding allegiance.
I love thunderstorms and lightning and spring rain. I needed a good storm.
He never once woke me up. I felt/heard him get up and so I got up too.
I don't remember a single thing that we talked about, I just have these memories, like snapshots in my head.
By the time I got back from school, he was leaving again.
But he was always home for dinner. I was always hungry. I sat next to him at the dinner table, facing my mother, who sat across from me.
Every single memory of dinner I have, we were always sitting this way. Who decided that?
Memories of my family have been haunting me lately, and I don't know why.
Some people would find a little girl getting up at five in the morning to spend time with her father sweet and endearing, something to remember with fondness.
I see a sad little girl hungry for some of her father's time, yearning for some notice that was unprovoked by school or a show or his own method of choosing sides and demanding allegiance.
I love thunderstorms and lightning and spring rain. I needed a good storm.