To Live to Dream
The house whispered with every step. The hardwood floors creaked and shushed his tiptoes despite how carefully his ankles were planted. He could feel the heat coming from the air vent hidden beneath the stairwell. It exhaled warmth from the radiator--creeping along the floor, licking his toes, and flowing quietly into the legs of his flannel pajamas. The air caressed the drawn curtains--wrinkling, swaying along the window sill, casting shadows that waltzed to the soft ivory of the moonlight. The living room exuded a calm domesticity. Even the darkness brought comfort to the plainly laid furniture; blanketing the edges of the sofa and enveloping the breakfast table until it was nothing more than a barely visible silhouette...a sparse connection of silver needles that gleamed in his peripheral vision. He could feel the corners of his mouth begin to rise. He was smiling. Smiling to himself and the dark.
A car sped by with a quick flash of its headlights. Suddenly the room was bathed in brightness...the picture frames were apparently crooked again. Of course. He edged to the wall opposite the windows, fraternized with the floor once more, and cautiously fixed the identical, diagonally-set frames that encased the photos of his children playing in the snow. It was their first trip to New Jersey, and they fell in love with Trenton almost as quickly as their father. He could taste the warm tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches melting in his mouth as he once sat, eyes glazed on his aunt's collection of music boxes and antique novelties. Now his house too oozed with that same teary nostalgia--the kind that makes you cry and smile so hard that the sides of your face hurt. He pulled from the wall, put his hand on the banister, and began singing an old Death Cab for Cutie tune in his mind: "Coney Island" to be exact. Now that was music.
He held himself, mimicking the first time Brian tried to slow dance with him to that song. Brian's dancing expertise didn't extend beyond the two-step sonatas he used to practice with his labrador; so, unfortunately, he inadvertently busted a few toes on his quest for romantic grace. No matter. His intentions were more important than those disastrous candle-light dinners overrun by poorly sauteed tofu. Brian's arms were broad. They held everything in place. There was nothing clumsy about the way he held. He was always strong with sincerity and love...even if he couldn't pronounce "Foucalt". Give and take...
After circling the room several more times and watching the last remnants of light blend back into the blackness, he began his trek back to the bedroom. The snoring could be heard from downstairs. It was miserable. He laughed to himself and shrugged his shoulders. What could you do? He kissed his children goodnight and whispered "sweet dreams" for the umteenth time that night. They slept so safely. They were angels.
As he pulled the covers over his chest, he thought about what he'd like to dream about that night. The snoring ceased, and the words "I love you" were mouthed by a not so unfamiliar stranger. Ha. Brian. Another country heard from.
Yeah. That's what I want one day.
A car sped by with a quick flash of its headlights. Suddenly the room was bathed in brightness...the picture frames were apparently crooked again. Of course. He edged to the wall opposite the windows, fraternized with the floor once more, and cautiously fixed the identical, diagonally-set frames that encased the photos of his children playing in the snow. It was their first trip to New Jersey, and they fell in love with Trenton almost as quickly as their father. He could taste the warm tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches melting in his mouth as he once sat, eyes glazed on his aunt's collection of music boxes and antique novelties. Now his house too oozed with that same teary nostalgia--the kind that makes you cry and smile so hard that the sides of your face hurt. He pulled from the wall, put his hand on the banister, and began singing an old Death Cab for Cutie tune in his mind: "Coney Island" to be exact. Now that was music.
He held himself, mimicking the first time Brian tried to slow dance with him to that song. Brian's dancing expertise didn't extend beyond the two-step sonatas he used to practice with his labrador; so, unfortunately, he inadvertently busted a few toes on his quest for romantic grace. No matter. His intentions were more important than those disastrous candle-light dinners overrun by poorly sauteed tofu. Brian's arms were broad. They held everything in place. There was nothing clumsy about the way he held. He was always strong with sincerity and love...even if he couldn't pronounce "Foucalt". Give and take...
After circling the room several more times and watching the last remnants of light blend back into the blackness, he began his trek back to the bedroom. The snoring could be heard from downstairs. It was miserable. He laughed to himself and shrugged his shoulders. What could you do? He kissed his children goodnight and whispered "sweet dreams" for the umteenth time that night. They slept so safely. They were angels.
As he pulled the covers over his chest, he thought about what he'd like to dream about that night. The snoring ceased, and the words "I love you" were mouthed by a not so unfamiliar stranger. Ha. Brian. Another country heard from.
Yeah. That's what I want one day.