The Middle of the Sidewalk: Writer's Week 2012

The following is my entry in Seuss' Pieces 2012 Writer's Week. The prompt I chose was "I'm not..."

I’m not aware of another 12 year old who woke up at 7:26am during summer break like I did. It wasn’t because I had anything important to do. I was supposed to be sleeping in, lazing about, forgetting to brush my teeth, and playing with my brother. Except the voice in my head didn’t tolerate laziness.

And I no longer had a brother.

I had started two school years without him already. This morning, my first day of middle school, marked the beginning of a third. As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror looking down at the two sinks in the counter and the lonely toothbrush in the ceramic cup, starting the day without him didn’t seem right. I looked up at my reflection, at the blonde mass of curls that spiraled from my head in all directions. Casey and I used to be a matched set, with identical hair and crystal blue eyes. But now there was only one brush on the counter, one towel on the rack, and one person I could confide in: myself.

In accordance with my strict morning routine, I went back to my room in my blue cotton pajamas that I wore every night and washed every two. I slipped the shirt off over my head and tossed it in the hamper, replacing it with a solid white one from my dresser. I exchanged my pajama pants for my brown corduroy ones, soft, comfortable, and worn at the knees. Then I sauntered down the stairs and sat down in my rickety chair at the head of the dining table where my mother had my coffee waiting for me.

My poor mother.

There she stood, leaning against the chipping kitchen counter and whisking a bowl of eggs with disinterest, although I’m sure she was making something exciting. A cake perhaps. She used to bake only when she was under unbearable stress, but she had turned out the most beautiful desserts since the accident. I dreaded to see her every morning, quietly going about her routine as she had every day since she lost her youngest. She was an empty shell, a graying spirit, distant and unfamiliar to me.

And yet, somehow I supposed we understood each other because she always had my coffee ready for me at exactly 7:29, and she washed my pajamas at noon every 2 days. She understood my need for routine, and I understood her need for silence.