Walks With Papa

So a recent writing assignment was to practice making a place become real by showing the reader things instead of just telling them. I feel like this was accomplished because my own words just took me to a time and place that doesn't exist yet. It was after it was written, as I read it for the first time, I felt I was catching a glimpse of the father that Steven will be...


WALKS WITH PAPA

It’s still quiet. Even though the slightest hint of yellow light is peering through the tiny holes of my white eyelet curtains, making them glow and announce the morning’s arrival. I crawl out of bed and peek through the curtains. He’s already there, waiting. I decide to stay in my cotton night gown with the little purple and blue flowers, then finish tying my shoes, grab the yellow knit cardigan and tip toe down the old wooden stairs, not ready for the squeaky boards to break the morning silence.

Standing at the screen door, I stop and count to 5 as I close my eyes and inhale the sweet scent of peaches, black cherry and just a hint of that earthy cedar, his morning pipe. Sitting on the top step, he pretends to not hear the creak and clang of the screen door as I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his neck, encompassing his back like a turtle shell. I nuzzle my cheek against his, still smelling of Irish Spring, and giggle as the stubble of his beard tickle me. Sliding around him, I’m now sitting in his lap with his arm around my belly and he leans in like he’s going to tell me a secret. He whispers that it’s going to be a good and perfect day. And I believe him. Even without looking, I can hear the smile in his voice. Then we sit quiet for a few moments and I follow his eyes, wanting to see what he sees.

The sun is still brightening the morning sky, so it won’t be true blue for another couple of hours. Right now it’s like God colored this morning using one of the giant boxes of crayons with over 100 options, where you can’t find just a plain old “blue.” I used this color just the other day; I think it was called Moonstone or maybe Malachite. No, definitely Moonstone. Not many clouds this morning, but a few low ones, the whipped and creamy kind that reminds me of cake batter. That same light through my curtains is reaching through and around the branches of the old Water Oak and the army of Poplars across the field. Besides being the stage for a chirping orchestra of early rising crickets, the stretch of pasture is a sea of sparkling, limp strands of grass trying to shake off the dew and stand at attention for the start of the day. Scattered throughout like a path to the hardwoods, I see patches of dandelion snow ready for me to send dancing into the breeze along with my wishes. We’re ready.

Without breaking the trance or uttering a word, we both stand and take a deep breath and head down the front porch steps. I reach my hand up and take hold of familiar warmth. With his large, rough, protective hand firmly wrapped around mine, I meet his eyes and with a wink he smiles, "Shall we?"