Its 6:55AM. I hear the uneven drumming of tiny feet upon the hardwood, and I trace her path through the house by the squeaks. The tempo increases as she begins to cover distance now - intent, no doubt, upon exploring the kitchen. 17 steps measures the hallway, with a doublestep dogleg left through the door as she paralleled the wall. Then, sure enough, the squeak that signals a passage across the gap between it and the counter. A small grunt and I hear suction break and bottles rattle as she puts all her weight into opening the fridge. I try to remember what its like to be that small, when wainscoting and chair rails meant a change in scenery, and doorknobs threatened my lowered head as I sped from room to room. I cant. I cant seem to remember a time when I didnt always know what was on top of the fridge, or what exactly was in the uppermost set of cabinets, or when my feet didnt hang off the bottom of the mattress. I never heard the bedroom door open. Shes getting good, but not that good. I traced her path across the bedroom. First it was over to the mirror, because she is vain. I heard the light scrapes of her using mommas hairbrush. Funny. I thought. Cant PAY her to do that before school. Down went the hairbrush onto the dresser. Wont be long now... The silence descended like a weight. Nothing. I knew she was there in the darkness somewhere, but she gave me no clue. Her breath was light. No objects were in play. I was about to concede defeat when the sigh came. Not really a sigh, but more of a scoff - Sort of a light, short grunt of disgust. Over by the mirror. The hairbrush rattled off of the dresser again. Saturday morning must need good hair to a five year old, because the scraping resumed for a moment or two. I smiled at her weekend vanity. A moment later my trap had been sprung! In a hushed tone Im pretty sure she cursed as her toes crumpled against the sole of my boot, which had lain in the floor to serve as my warning. Like I said, shes getting good, and I hate being frightened by her sudden appearance at my head level bedside. The narrow passage between my side and the wall, where the washstand intersects, serves as a perfect choke point in which to thwart her morning assaults. I knew, at that point, I had five feet.
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 14:05:10 +0000
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