Wet paint and gold lettering

Routine never fails to surprise. A peck on my soft cheek lays a wet parting gift as my mother trips out our brightly painted door. The sunshine yellow now starting to peel and twist into wrinkles at its edge, justifying our impulsive stroke of competence of suddenly knowing how to paint weathered hardware. A hand flies into the crack of the closing door as a last wave before escaping the jaws, snapping back into the doorframe. I stand once again in stillness, eyeing the two hands printed on the door face with craft paint signing our existence. My right hand still lingering with the sensation of red paint, foreign and heavy, bringing upon a compulsive need to touch everything around me so they too can feel such bliss. 

‘Oh no darling come back here, don't drip it everywhere it will ruin the floors. Quickly while its still wet. Here, ready, give the door a high five with me’. My mother guides my arm up, i place my hand on the fading print reaching its fingers just below my new ones. Releasing the connection, they both remain dry whilst my hand sits at my side wet, rubbing off the red paint onto my pants. 

The muffled world taunts and teases, whispering between themselves, occasionally singing out and knocking on the windows. The kitchen echos its light as it spills into the hall behind me, opening up the morning again with mother returning to the world at waking times, and finding use of the holidays by myself. Since turning ten, I can now view the various memories that play out on the walls at a comfortable level. Stationary until I provide the stories, the photographs speak and reach out, calling for more screen time as they encourage me to remember more. 

A purple frame holds our family. The family that i do not see much of anymore. I stand and watch as the nuclear gathering of six, three generations shuffle in place guided by someone beyond the camera. The conductor steers them in place, so all of them are visible with an aesthetic nature that blesses the moment. Grandma watches in the centre, sitting below while the others scatter around. On her lap I sit restless, uncomfortable as her thin arms wire around me to attempt to settle me. Satisfaction slows everyone to a statue, my father and gorgeous mother, a distant cousin seen only once after then, aunty Jude holding grandma's shoulder. I hold thumbs up to the photograph and they all smile wide momentarily. The family drops back down their strung emotion after the click of the camera and everyone retreats to opposite ways. The baby is gifted off to the mother and the chair is left to sit forever stuck in the moment. 

Below in a smaller frame, one decorated with cheap flower embroidery, a puppy turns on its back, slapping its tail on the floor. Dry slobber mixes with fresh excitement as it fishes for attention with his dopey eyes. I see my reflection in the black beads, and am met with a yap that shakes me out of a lull. 

‘Snoop!’, i sing loudly to the dog. He jumps back to attention at his call. A lopsided grin as he yaps again sends me into a small giggle. I hop into a wave, matching his playful mood.

‘Hey buddy! Hey, hi!’, I find myself calling out in response to his barking as we jump around in circles, stopping and staring at each other before turning and running again. He runs under my feet, causing a quick jump out of his way, landing on my heels falling back into the wall behind me. My laughter catches in my throat as I'm winded from the surprise. Scrunching my face up in anticipation of being met with a tongue coating my pain with puppy breath, I stay dry and gasping for air. 

‘Pup?…’. I open my eyes to no answer and  watch the small flowery frame above me, holding a photo of the old houses worn and discoloured carpet, the fraying tassels being centre focus. 

In the kitchen I slip bread into the toaster and set the time to the line mother marked in sharpie to save any more tears over burnt toast. The butter sits next to the Nutella on the island table behind me, I move them over to my working space in front of me and grab my favourite plate and matching knife from the drying rack. With time to spare I do laps around the kitchen, counting how many I can get before the toast rings ready. No running because that is cheating, I mustn’t stop because that will ruin it. The toast flags a total of Six and the small side of the table laps. I coat my breakfast in its clothes and sit at the front window table, only big enough for mother and I. The Nutella melted slightly on the toast sticks to my mouth as I bit into it, attempting to lick it off only resulted in more chocolate spread everywhere.

A bin slams closed outside on the street and two ladies walk back to the centre of the path to continue on their way. Their legs march in time, bobbing their heads to the beat I'm giving them with my hand drumming the plastic table. Both wearing dresses like the ones I designed in my drawing book, only more layers of other different colours and shapes. Matching bags hang from their arms resembling those that presents are hidden in. Their destination must be a birthday party, a grand one that balloons hang from the doorframe of all different colours, with a big cake that has the special person's name iced on in gold lettering. The party must be so big, maybe there’s room for everyone. I run back over to the countertop in the kitchen where mother puts the mail we get over the week. I shuffle through them and look for the fancy gold lettering, or maybe even a bright sticker that seals it all together. No luck. 

I run back over to the window and look further down the street where they kept walking. Nearing the end of our road they pass the green pizza place with the extra cheese that sticks to the box. The neon light on the window flashing an unbelievable colour of pink shouts that it's open. In the window a man sits watching the street like me. The reflection of the world and its chaos slightly tinting my ability to see him properly. I mirror his position, placing my head in my hands, resting my elbows on the table. I shift in my seat to help myself get comfortable in the slumped posture but it still feels weird. I watch him while he watches the cars absently. I’m sure it's the homework that has him wound up in such deep thought. The teachers always give the harder questions to you for your parents to deal with at home. It must be very advanced given his age but im sure he can figure it out, maybe i could go and give him my revision sheets from my recent multiplication test. It would have to be maths because of how hard he is thinking. He takes a bite of his pizza and is now looking down, maybe hes found the answer! Yes that must be it because he's up from the table now and has disappeared from the window. I blindly feel for my plate next to me and grab my breakfast. My toast is now cold. 

I retreat back to my bedroom to finish the circus show that was parading around town, starring pooh the biggest bear to ever live, whilst the gymnast barbie shows the great lengths that her joints can be pushed to. The audience will have the collective favourite of the purple lizard that can jump through every shape imaginable. 

The light outside cools the house as the sun disappears behind the neighbouring buildings, casting a shadow through my window. Downstairs the news echos from the tv. The monotone voice, simplifying the world's chaos and mystery’s, also alarms the time in which mother will return home. I run back downstairs. 

The world knocks again on our yellow door,  shifting it open as it peeks in. Mother returns with a breath of fresh air. I pad over to the kitchen door to watch her peel off her shoes and place them facing towards her ready for tomorrow's adventures. Seeing me, she calls into a hug. Through the embrace I feel the movement of a sigh running from her body into mine, a habit I’ve grown fond of, matching the rhythm of her breathing, struggling to keep up after the initial few rounds as my lung capacity forces me to gasp at a pace faster, breaking our unison. The moment is broken as her heel placed by the door falls from its statue form. A pat on the back serving a signal of content with the embrace and we head into the kitchen. My sticky feet slapping the furnished floors disturb the silence as mother glides in front of me with socks slightly faded at the heels. I take my place at the kitchen island as she unpacks various snacks left uneaten from her day bag. I smile at the slight rattle of the resin keychain attached to the front, alien in appearance to the formality of the bag. A rattle that matches the one that hangs from my school bag, resin now worn and tugged at, the cartoon picture now unrecognisable. I'm sure all her friends at work gather around in awe, holding out other colourful objects begging to trade, much like my friends do. I’m sure she tells them its forbidden because it's a gift from me, much like I say to those who were now doubling the offers. The fridge door shuts and she moves over to flick on the lights that hang over us, given this warning i slightly shut my eyes waiting to open them to slowly adjust to the artificial lighting. She returns to the table and shuffles around cooking tools. 

‘How was your day mum?’, asking in a joyful tone to break the silence. She looks up to me and for a moment i felt there wasn’t going to be an answer before breaking into a smile,

‘work? Oh, it was wonderful!… I cant wait to wake up and do it all again tomorrow, and every time after that until I can no longer stand.’

With that she returns to the carrots, cutting them into fine pieces, continuing on the conversation with a simple tone. Her voice echoing in our small apartment blocks out the world whispering and inviting itself to sneak in every crack and crevice of our house. Mother said her day was wonderful out in that big world, yet she still returns back to me. I cant wait to grow older and follow her ways of working. I will share the worlds mysteries amongst grand parties, homework with pizza, i will find the chair lost in the room and sit with my family, the puppy can sit on my lap, and I will whisper with the world too.