Tuesday, November 12, 2013

The Heart of the House




 
            This blog  is a copy of the descriptive essay assignment  for my English 101 class. The assignment was to write a story from your life about your favorite place, season or vacation.  It seemed cheesy, and sentimental, but my story was about my bed.  I expected a good grade, but  I was wholly unprepared for the 100A++.  I was even more unprepared by  the note she had written underneath my grade. " This is the best descriptive essay I have read in my 11 years of teaching."  I am humbled. Not only by the note, but by the response of my friends and family that wanted to read my essay after  I posted a picture of the note on FaceBook.   Thank you. I love you.
  
                                    
                                        The Heart Of The House
 
     Most of our weekend mornings start the same way. Sunshine streams into a window, bathing the room in yellow light. I am rousing from the cocoon of blankets. The sound of snoring greets my ears. But it is not the snoring that wakes me, it is a giggle. These morning sounds, this light and this warmth, and even the smells of fabric and flesh create another living breathing entity. This Island of family is the very heart of our house.
 
    First, a small boy would play with my toes. Then he would launch himself onto the bed to sing his salutations. My eyes would blearily open, trying to to focus on the green eyes and pink lips that wanted to give me slobbery little boy kisses. I would then grab him around the waist and snuggle him into the warm blankets to hold him tight. Tickling and roughhousing would ensue, leaving us breathless.
 
   This was my routine for several years. The little boy grew. HIs early morning greeting now came after being woken by the gales of laughter from the curly haired blond toddler girl, seven years his junior. This was the little girl that would sneak up  on him and give him a raspberry on his belly. I could hear her chortling at the "pwbbbht" sound. Soon the four of us would be laughing on the cozy square of the king sized bed.
 
    Now a young man, the sandy haired boy occasionally follows his preteen sister as tehy are woken by the sounds of thumping tails and excited barks. They are greeted by the wagging tails and wet, slobbery kisses of te furry chow mix and the smooth coated , energetic pit bull. They fall into the huge bed that suddenly seems so small.The six of us play, tickle, hug, raspberry and wet Willie our way into the day.
 
   To them, it's just the weekend. My son and daughter do not realize I am measuring thier ever lengthening bodies. They do not know that  as we hug, I am inhaling the youthful scent of thier flushed skin. They are not aware that I know know these times spent in the smothness of red sheets will come to an end.These days of hiding in the fluffy grey comfortor are going to be but a memory of childhood past.
 
  I see the time passing by, faster every day. I want to grasp the slipping sand from the hourglass. I beg time to slow down. I'm not ready for thier childhood to be over. I'm not ready for this time to end. I will never be ready for the eventual emptiness. Our bed has always been the heart of the house. I don't want it's beating to stop.
   
 
   
 
 
 

No comments:

Post a Comment