Woke up at seven, after watching dizzy basketball snap-shots that led to over-drinking from a bottle of hard cider. Syracuse lost in the final four and I had fought depression with funny antics like stealing Zach’s droopy hat and pretending to be him, while shouting out songs of encouragement. My personal favorite however, was a slam towards Michigan, as I repeatedly called McGary a fairy and twirled around in pajamas like a true little kidster.
The morning brought about exhaustion, but I bit my way through it and pulled on a pair of smelly jeans that needed to get washed. In the bathroom I put my hair up in a pony-tail to hide the layers of grease and annoyance. For a five minute segment before slipping out the door, I caressed Zach’s forehead and gave him several kisses while whispering my adoration. It was warm in bed, what with our dog Umphrey providing long body embraces, and it took so much will-power to forcibly get my butt moving. I could have played lazy for a while longer, but I hate being late places. I get disoriented and lost.
After my train commute to Manhattan, I dipped into a Dunkin’ Donuts and got a vanilla chai, only to discover that it was basically hot water with sugary bullshit mixed in, to comfort all those marvelous people that order their doughy death rolls. The taste of it, reminded me of my early childhood, and I walked across the street, with an air of nostalgia. In the root of my mouth, I tasted memories that brought me back to the days when I lived on Western Avenue. It was there that I lived in a house that was haunted. My parent’s were young then and so was I. I remember being obsessed with old 90s fads. I was never hooked on Mariah and Britney like everyone else, but found myself listening to Hoku a lot. That and Billy Joel. I liked to be a rebel and tell my friends about old blues musicians too. Skip James was my hero. I’d make up plenty of stories.
But anyways, back to my day. After getting that rubbish and yet stirring cup of tea, I pranced on over to the Shirasu-Hiza’s. Once arriving, the two boys were at the kitchen table still eating breakfast. Their father Joel was guiding the older of the two along, being that he has some problems focusing on the eating process. His mind gets distracted, but he’s very endearing and cute.
Once they were finished, I made a crown for Arlo and there was a brief crying episode when Ansel snagged part of his ‘favorite pillow’. It was an old relic that belonged to his mother, and was made by his now non-existent great-grandmother. In fact, he was so traumatized (even though the gem is already well tethered) that he said we had to get on an airline flight to Hawaii as soon as possible. He said his grandma would fix the darn thing, and we had to get there pronto. In the mind of a four year old that probably makes perfect sense, but in reality it’s just idiotic. I had to swaddle him for a bit, with the help of his mother, and explain that his plan just wasn’t possible. His screams faded.
Soon thereafter some sort of resolve, I got paints out and we all sat around creating. Arlo went ahead and painted a beautiful Matisse-like picture of a potted flower, while Ansel worked on an image of a chicken and its many baby eggs. Both were darling and beautiful. I got excited for them even!
Eventually, I went outside with Arlo, while Ansel helped his parents with housework. Arlo exhibited his new bike skills and we played store with snacks we brought with us: dried fruit slabs, and salted seaweed. We also threw around a tennis ball we found hidden near a park fence, and played various games. When we went back inside, Arlo got out his uke and was strumming it with the guitar pick I said he could have. He’s quite the musician!
In fact, the music worked like a good teacher. Just those gentle strums, made both of us stronger. We learned from our smiles. We let our day turn brightly.