the house is empty at the time i drag my pseudo jet-lagged derriere out of bed, images of men in dashed line suits perishing from my conciousness. i look to the floor where my brother has left me a note and a steve nash rookie card. when my hair's all dorky and parted in the middle i look like the nba mvp, you see. then i remember my mother also paid me a visit this morning. when she asked if i'd like to have breakfast with her i think i replied "i can't get out of bed". and it was a matter of can't. this house has myseterious sleep inducing powers.
before i've even thought to make a coffee i wander the house a little, taking in the details there wasn't time for during last night's ambush surprise for my mother, who had looked at me like a ghost as i walked through the door a few minutes after my brother and his friends. "yes mum, it's really me", i said. and when she started to cry i held out my hand to geno, "you owe me ten bucks". he was about to say the same thing.
the polished floorboards creak beneath my toes. it's colder than i anticipated and i keep expecting the patter of my old dog's scratchy start to be around the next corner or behind the bathroom door. where's gypsy? my mind automatically refreshes every sixty seconds. photos pinned in displays feature 60% dead or missing, and i'm in the mix. i huff. a selective family portrait, but i saw that six months ago. wasn't that for father's day? this thought to another of how impossible that task alone must be. i hoist my childhood teddy from his rigid resting place on the leopard print couch. what was new nose called before we gave him a new nose? i let my steps take us both for a walk around the garden. the rainclouds haved moved along and the sun is shining invitingly on spring's colourful productions.