My mother comes into my bedroom, in the morning, and kisses me on the cheek to say goodbye. It was a habit that started at a younger age when I would become anxious if I could not tell her that I loved her before she left. I used to wonder, “What if these are the last moments with her?” I guess people would call me a morbid kid for having thoughts like these. But the habit has held strong and if she does miss a day of coming in and kissing me on the cheek and saying “alright Taylee have a good day.” As she rushes out almost always running late. She smells of toothpaste and lotion and I still smell of body, that dull odor that seeps through your pores in the morning after a night of hard rest. Well if we miss a day, that anxiety resurfaces. It is not as urgent as when I was younger, but it’s still there. The need for some kind of gifted words.
My dad comes back from his daily morning walks with the dog that has become a lover to all of us. She is a comfort even if she does sometimes chew on the wrong thing.
I am sitting in the kitchen with my coffee and book that continues to surprise me, as he walks up the dark stained wooden stairs with his slight limp from his bad knees. He takes the newspaper outside and he reads the news as I escape from it in my novel. This time with him is pleasant. We are both still untainted by the disappointments of the day. There’s still hope for something beautiful to happen. Most days, if you don’t look hard enough it never comes. But there are those rare occasions that every little moment feels strong and vibrant. He sits outside on the red deck and I sit in the kitchen. The glass sliding door open between us.
Today I see Turkey in one of the headlines and thinking back about the cobblestone streets and the curved architecture of Istanbul, I feel the need to know. I feel curiosity towards the places I have been. It envelops me not leaving room for the curiosity of my own country.
He tells me about the Kurds in Turkey and the missile strikes in Syria and we move on to Israel. How conflict has existed there for as long as he can remember, based in religion. Religion, based on faith. Based on hope. It all sounds so foreign to me. I wonder what I would do if I were in the position of the missile strikers or a member of the Kurdish army. But I couldn’t imagine. I couldn’t imagine the fear they have or worse the lack of fear when it all becomes the same. When death becomes ordinary and life were the lucky.
We talked about how world peace is impossible and it’s human nature to want what others have.
As he is brushing his hair, dressed in, what my sister and I have deemed his “work clothes,” a pair of khakis, a button up collared shirt with the same brown leather belt. He is a man of habit. We talk about children.
He leaves. I am alone. The lover dog comes and curls her long, awkward legs over one another as I look up a song. Music is for this time when the world feels enormous and terrifying but still beautiful. Still possible. Even exciting. Even interesting. I curl up next to my lover dog . My head close to hers. She moves her head as though she wished I wouldn’t get that close. But she stayed still with her paws on top of limbs. She was patient as I kissed the pads on the bottom of her two front feet. They had tufts of hair coming between her toes, reminding me of the hair you find in the ears of aging men. We stayed like that until the song was over and it was time to start the day.
The tears taking a jaunt down my flushed skin indicated beauty. So I took time to jot down these moments of an ordinary morning when everything felt strong and vibrant.