The
sun was already awake when she opened her eyes. It peeked at her from between the heavy gold
drapes; and she squinted back at it, then stretched and rolled onto her side.
She closed her eyes and saw the bright circles inside her lids. Then she opened
them and looked at the cobweb of ceiling cracks, until her eyes grew accustomed
to the light.
A
voice called from the stairs, “Rise and shine!”
Like the sun, she thought, smiling. She launched herself upright,
dangling her legs over the side and wiggling her toes before her feet dropped
to the cool floor. The gold squares of linoleum were faded and cracked, but fit
the house like a faithful friend, weathered and true. She loved the patterns
and lines, and the old house, with its cracked ceilings and floors and walls,
afforded ample opportunity to observe them. She pulled the drapes aside and
studied the raised cracks on the ledge, which formed miniature mountain ranges.
She dared not touch them; when she did, they crumbled. She loved the idea of mountains. She had seen them
in magazines, and in storybooks and texts. She daydreamed about them, imagining
their height, imagining the clouds that swirled at their peaks. There were few
clouds this morning, but the few reminded her of the cotton batting she had
seen in the craft store. She had picked up a bit and stretched the soft fibres
between her fingers until she could see through it. Cotton batting, she decided, her chin tipped
skyward. She marvelled at how they hung, perfectly still, in a sky that was the
palest blue. What keeps them there? she wondered. God?
No answer came, of course, but she thought so.
She talked to God a lot. Even though she never actually
saw him, he felt familiar, like the cracked linoleum… like an old friend. And,
talking to him made her feel … well, not so alone—
“Porridge
is ready!” The familiar voice broke into her thoughts at about the same time as
an inviting scent reached her nose. Porridge. “Be right there!” Porridge made
her feel warm inside. It was waiting, each morning, sure as the sunrise.
She tugged one leg, then the other, into her jeans. Then
she pulled her orange alpaca over her head. In minutes was seated in front of
the steaming bowl of oats. She poured the milk slowly, watching as it arced and
then splashed down. It oozed into rivers that disappeared down crevices,
leaving one small lake on top. Then she scooped exactly two—all that she was
allowed—mounds of golden grains and plopped them into the lake, watching them
as they melted into a caramel pool. Steam rose and she blew it away. Then she
dipped her spoon in, lifted it below her nose and blew in gentle puffs that
formed tiny waves on her spoon. Like a beach, she smiled.
She was barely aware of the familiar drone of
conversation between her parents.
She would walk south today, along the road. It was her
favourite walk, beneath the giant willow that overshadowed the road, and her. It
looks like
it’s weeping,
she thought. She loved it. She would take it all in, again, the way she always
did: the way the breeze swayed the slim blades of grass, the way the weeds
buzzed with bees and the way that tiny flowers appeared here and there as she
walked. Bluebells were her favourite. Gophers popped up like toast and watched
nervously, then vanished when she got too close. How deep can they go? she wondered.
No answer came, of course, and she could never know.
She would take in sights and sounds and smells and, after
walking a ways, far enough that she wouldn’t be heard, she would talk to him—to
God. Her voice sounded odd, at first, almost out of place, like she was
interrupting something. But, he
seemed to fit here, with everything she imagined he had made. She’d heard
stories about that when she was little, of how he had made everything in seven
days. Seven days,
she thought, pondering everything around her. All these lines and patterns
and colours. The
bees and cattle and horses … sooo much, and me, too. “Me, too,” she said out loud, almost startling herself. Dust. The thought seemed strange, but
she could try … She bent down, scooped up a handful of gravelly dust from the
road and lifted it beneath her nose. She blew gently. “Ahchoo! Ah-ah-ahchoo!” How
could he make anything from this? she wondered. But she believed he had, somehow.
After all, friends believed in each other.
I love my south walk, she thought, smiling to herself. One day, I
think I’ll go north, she
decided.
And one day, she did.