Saturday Morning
My lips were chapped when I woke. I must have been sleeping with my mouth open. I reached over to check my phone for the time thinking I had missed my alarm. It is Saturday, oh right. Light was pouring through my curtains each time the fan oscillated in their direction letting me know it was morning. Under my quilt I was warm and comfortable, but Saturdays are mine, so I mustn’t waste them with sleep.
The fan kissed my cheeks with cool air just as I pulled back the covers. My room was chilly. It was almost October, but in Georgia the weather does not care what the calendar says. Just the week before I was outside in shorts, but this morning felt as if old man winter had booked his flight down south. The floor was ice when I stepped out of bed. My father was adamant about the use of socks but no matter how many times I tried sleeping in them I woke up barefooted. I do not know if he cared so much about socks because he sold them, or if it was because he thought it kept you warmer, thus lower heating bills. Either way, you best not complain of the temperature without some sort of foot covering or his first recommendation would be socks. Matching socks. They must not work as well with the wrong partner.
The television was almost inaudible from the living room, but I could make out the newscaster welcoming us back to the morning broadcast. My mother was an early riser and an avid news station patron. The entire time I have known my mother she has worked jobs that required the former trait, but the later has seemed to develop through the years. My mother is at her most beautiful in the morning when you catch her before she starts worrying about everyone on the news and everyone under her roof who has yet to wake up. She is the support beam for a family built out of un-organization, dirty laundry, and dreams. No matter how much she washes, we always find more laundry.
Before I join my mother in living room I put back on the socks I lost while running about in my dreams and rummage through the mess on my table for lip-balm. My door opens between two couches in the center of the living room. If I so wished I could lay on my bed and watch the television from there, but my eyes are not that precise and the sofa is much more comfortable anyway.
My father is in the kitchen wearing shorts purchased at least ten years ago making coffee and checking his phone for missed calls. He supposedly gets off of work on Friday at 5:30 but someone forgot to tell his cell phone. Soon my mother will call to him, asking him is he is waiting on a kidney. I take my place at the far end of the large couch, feet underneath me, hair a mess, silently greeting my family as they acknowledge the fact that I am out of bed early. I will one day become a morning person like my mother, but until then I will mope and moan if forced to rise before I am ready.
As my dad enters the living room, coffee in hand, he tousles my hair making it worse than before but somehow better at the same time. He takes his place on the other end of my couch, turning the volume up on the television, since he doesn't understand how we can hear the damn thing, just as the weatherman is telling us how comfortable the day will be.
My brother will sleep at least a half hour more. He would sleep during the day and wake at night if there were no birds or wind chimes in the world. He hates both passionately, along with shoulders and dirty fingernails. The rest of the day may be very exciting, or it may be very bland, but the mornings are always the same.
On Saturday morning in my parents’ home it will not matter if it is 1997 or 2017, it will always be chilly, the bathroom will always be occupied when you need it, and I will always feel perfectly at home.