• Mathura Hawley

child

Updated: Aug 2, 2021


The voices of my parents giving away where they were in the house, moving around with echoes and the laughter of my mother. "

I wake surrounded by trucks and stuffed animals, my biggest decision: run my Hotwheels tracks under the bed or up the wall with the booster my aunt Gigi bought me. My grilled cheese sandwich cut into triangles would show up on a plate at noon on the picnic table on the deck with an orange soda next to it. It came every summer day, and there was no chance it would not. Warm breezes would blow the thin white curtains of our dining room window and ring the chime I bought for my mother from Indian Imports with my own money. The creak of the first cellar stair, then a pause, as my father hid the key back into the sole of his big black boot. The voices of my parents giving away where they were in the house, moving around with echoes and the laughter of my mother. Dinner would come, as it always did, in mismatched weathered white bowls, butter soft on a plate in the middle of the table. The television would go on, the outside sounds of the evening changing and quieting, fewer cars and more buzz of crickets. It would happen again tomorrow, and the next day and, I thought, every day after that.


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