{NaPoWriMo 2017 ~ Day 7}
Reminders of times past;
Nostalgia;
The blitheness of a child revisited.
At a time when darkness still reigns—
too late in the night for anyone to be awake, or
too early in the morning for anyone to be awake—
tata (father) rouses us to consciousness.
Lethargy
like superglue keeping our eyes closed;
Cold
like waterfalls of ice on our feet
when they poke out from under the covers.
"Come on, time to wake up;
you can sleep in the car."
Pillows, blankets huddled in our arms:
mementos of the paradise of slumber.
We stumble wherever that familiar voice leads us,
vision fuzzy,
feet shuffling,
comprehension nonexistent—
just get to the car,
where rest awaits.
Step out the garage door,
cold morning air hits us like the gust of a blizzard.
Still black as ink outside;
the sun makes a feeble effort to light our way:
the faintest glimmer of blue—
hue inspired by the glacial air—
streaks along the Eastern horizon.
And the air:
As if winter concentrated all it has
into this single morning;
As if we are living in a fridge
and the fridge door just slammed shut;
As if Antarctica has come to visit us,
but without the snow.
Oooooh it's c-co-old.
Where's the car?
We shuffle begrudgingly to the open door and dive in,
creating our personal nests faster than any bird
out of pillows and covers and anything warm.
Darkness:
sleep returns.
As tens,
dozens,
hundreds
of miles of asphalt pass beneath our metal chariot,
the sky grows gradually brighter
and through holes in the sheltering veil of Hypnos
we listen to snippets of grown-up talk:
something about planning,
something about money,
something about home,
something about travel,
…something about us...
In retrospect, it was all probably important,
but, to the infinite indifference of childhood,
irrelevant.
That indifference is gone now—
it could not follow me through the years.
Like Blankie
and action figures
and Gameboy cartridges,
it’s in the attic now.
I can visit it,
but I can no longer have it back.