Readership

So this is familial bliss. He thought.

The sun shone off the newly swept wood floors (in the morning it reflected off the birdbath through the window and onto the ceiling, but this was the evening). The old mismatched sofa, love-seat and chair were clear of the usual clutter - laundry and/or toys and library books - the dining room table was cleaned off. His eldest was already in bed, tired out from a day of exploring, swinging and going down the big slide. On the back porch there were a number of containers with soil, surely dead by now earthworms, an eggshell or two, a dead cockroach and a couple of tiny maple trees that had miraculously forced their way out of their respective helicopters. The back porch was swept and the recycling was in its' bins. Mother was on the phone with her mother, and baby boy's thoughtful almond eyes were smiling at the window or the ceiling light; the icons or his papa. He punched and kicked profusely and babbled, the drool bubbling and cascading over an assortment of rolls that belonged to his face, chin and/or torso. His diaper was dry and that was bliss.

Later, walking down a dark alleyway, relaxed and lucid, he remembered all of this with clarity, and returned home again to it, though the shades were drawn and the windows dark. A warm lamp that used to belong to an old friend glowed in the dining room, waiting for him to return. He brushed his teeth, washed his hands, ate a piece of bread and drank a glass of water. All of these things he did within the context of his family. The whole house breathed with them as they slept.

Who were his readers? He had thought that earlier. He had no photo of the fun to share, no fashion tips or celebrity sitings. And now his glass was empty. It was time to sleep.

Yes Captain.

1. Years ago I bought an old tan Ford Tempo from a friend's grandma in Kansas City, Kansas for 400 dollars. It had a nude-coloured exterior, a tan interior and a license plate that said "Mary Ida" that I couldn't get off as it had rusted to the car. Thus we named the car "Mary Ida", and bought a tan throw pillow for the back seat and a tan bobble-headed dog for the dash.

Before the kids were born I remember we would often go on road-trips to here and there. At one point, we were in the middle of Western Kansas - "no where", as they say - on a characteristically latitudinal east/west road. Tan prairie as far as the eye can see. I stopped the car to look around and take some video footage. We climbed up on the roof for a better view. I imagine if someone had seen us, it would've looked like we were standing on nothing.

2. I am so proud of my family. "Proud" is an odd word, I know, and I don't necessarily mean it the way it is meant to be used, but the idea is, I guess, that I am so happy that they exist and are mine. Not "mine" in the sense that I own them so much as the sense that Ephraim is "my" son, Estrella is "my" daughter, Rachel is "my" wife. Of these characteristics that help describe them I am the sole referent.

Ephraim wears his spittle like a crystal necklace around his neck, the depths of which we have not yet succeeded in plumbing by virtue of it's rotundity. I think rotundity was the word I wanted.

Estrella played soccer with me and some other kids and grown-ups today. She was running around chasing the ball and squealing. The sweat was pasting tiny threads of hair to her face. "Are you tired?" I'd ask. "No!" She'd say. She did get nailed with the ball once, but recouped, somewhat. We were all pretty tired.