Saturday Morning

 Saturday morning. They evolve so much as you grow. As a little kid, I remember sitting on our green shag carpet,

Cheerios and orange juice in front of the massive wooden TV. I sat so close I would kick the little decorative handles on the TV with my feet while I watched Scooby Doo. Or I would wake up early and pull on my swimsuit, waiting for my mom to finish her coffee so I could start a long summer day in the pool. In high school if my friends weren’t at my house or vice versa, I slept in. Waking up to a quiet house. My parents already in the midst of their day. 

Now, either I wake with the baby or Rob does, the other kids here or not here. If they aren’t here, weekends are a little too quiet. I find myself straining to hear them so I wander into their rooms. Charlie's smells of Strawberry Pound Cake spray, cloying and sweet. Zigs smells of rubber and sweat, his shoes lined neatly along one wall. Sometimes Charlie leaves us a note. I found one in my wandering this morning, coffee cup in one hand and Welles on my hip. There it was. A little bowl with a carefully folded note amidst the make up and Barbies scattered across her desk. In the bowl, she had placed her recently lost tooth. 

“Here is my tooth.” The first note read. I unfolded the next letter.

“It may be my last one.” 

Charlie has a bit of a dark dramatic streak. Clearly, she’s a writer.