Gabriel Reed (matchesmade) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-12 21:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | emma woodhouse |
Who: Gabe, Phee and Ernie Reed (guest appearance: Eloise Murphy)
What: Mother's Day. Absentia one mother.
When: Sunday
They had built their traditions as they had built their home, first in the small, cramped apartment long since outgrown and then in the house where sunlight sifted over the wide expanse of white linen in the mornings and the children were giggling intruders beyond the door.
They had built their traditions step by step, a world away from the formalities of grey stone, of the first year of stiff collared shirt and a tie, of church in a hard wooden pew with the smell of must and beeswax and her slim, cold hand in his, her awkward kiss at breakfast as her mother held up her cheek expectantly. He had claimed her, brick by piecemeal tradition by brick, twined his hand around hers, smiled blandly back across the panoply of glassware and silver the table bristled with and promised (that had been the first) in the half-dark before dawn when they were sleepy hands and slow rock of bodies that this would not be theirs. This would not be them.
The children - child, first, it had been Phee, colicky and complaining in best, screaming, wordless fashion - fed before she rose. (That was second.) She’d half-risen from pillows, greyed from exhaustion, slipped back into sleep as the screams dimmed down to the low, tuneless hum and then the silent click of the door that allowed for sleep; that first day, it had been three in the afternoon when she was long fingers curled around cooling cup of tea, leaning in the door-frame with a wordless smile on her face as Phee slept on his knee. (Last year, he’d let himself in, token spare key tucked beneath a terracotta pot and whisked them away in the chilly, air-conditioned quiet of the early morning.) They woke early, the kids. They woke, dragging comfort blanket and teddy bear between them, sleep-creased and warm from their beds. Phee crumpled, fled. Ernie stared at him, sad eyed, jammed fingers in his mouth and said nothing.
They were sticky-fingered, the crow of delight of messy flour and water, of thin egg-shells to crumble in small fingers. A rueful look upward as she paused on entry, a finger to her lips. Silent laughter. The cake was colorful, she ate it demurely with the side of her fork - in the dark, shaking with laughter, he promised better next year. And the next. (That was third). He’d been doubtful about the cake: they’d insisted, Phee’s voice rising in pitch dangerously close to out and out tantrum. It sat, primly perfect on one of her plates, in the fridge. Iced. Untouched.
He’d brought her flowers. Not roses, she’d been a tired tangle of limbs beneath hospital-starched sheets: he’d brought her freesias, tight furled buds coiled on slender green stems. He’d brought her daisies and lilies, until the nurses asked him to stop - pleasant-firm, until the surfaces of the blasted room were stacked with vases, until she smiled at him above the tiny red face as he lifted Phee onto the blanket to peer over at her brother. (He’d given her roses last year. He’d given her roses as per performance, velvet-soft and yellow. Yellow for constancy, for friendship - that was fourth). Flowers waited the catch of the key in the lock, it had been Ernie who picked chaotic riot of color, determined, Phee pale, Phee clinging to his hand as though his own disappearance forgiven in the absence of their mother.
It took until bedtime. It took until the sun going down, before all of them - all three Reeds - truly realized it would be this year, that traditions were broken.