A Typical Day – A Short Narrative
The shrill cries of my alarm echo across vermilion painted walls, stirring my consciousness into an aware state. It is precisely eight o’clock on a warm summer Monday; the distant cries of mockingbirds can be heard above the soft whirring of cars passing our genteel residential street. My ears scan the house; it is quiet – barely a sound other than the tinkling of tags as our pets navigate the living room. The still morning air brought realization, with no children running around Mother must have already left for work. Never leaving my lax position I stretch and sigh, it is nice to not have to baby-sit my sister’s kids – my nieces and nephew – but I do miss the mornings where my mother would still kiss me goodbye.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
The second my Father leaves for his rented space in Salon Alcala my brain clicks, and my rushed attempts at dressing begin. I dash to our small bathroom and rip the electric toothbrush across my teeth, simultaneously gelling the straggling hairs that compose my miniature ‘fro, the platinum hair finally falling showily into place as I finish rinsing my mouth. Hurriedly I race the six steps to my bedroom, throwing on the first garments I lay eyes on. After my frantic attempts at dressing, I stop to gather my items, the soft cotton of the messenger bag draping gracefully over my textbook and notes. I step back, quietly checking off my daily necessities. Satisfied, I grab the bag and walk through the tiny house, noticing anything in disarray that I might need to correct later; fortunately, everything was decent.
I place everything down by the door and don my jacket, ready to go out into the world – almost. I quietly step back to my room, checking my phone’s time on the way, and grab the rainbow colored flakes required to feed my three fish. I pinch a generous amount to scatter in the tank, and watch as the silver Angelfish attacks it, then the Red-tailed shark, and finally the tropical Clownfish. My silver angel,...