A Ray of Sunshine
Glynis Scrivens
There’s an orange on the floor in the cloakroom. And when I went into the bathroom to wash my hands-, a large toy eye stared up at me from the tiled terracotta floor. It belongs to an octopus we made from an old T-shirt. The octopus, though much admired, didn’t survive its first bath-time adventure.
The sight of these random objects in incongruous places has become the norm. What is unusual is to find anything where it actually belongs.
Take the egg-slice, for example. Until this week it’s led a mundane existence, alternating between the container on the bench top and the dishwasher. When I needed it Tuesday, to turn over two eggs, it was conspicuously absent.
Not lost, of course. Everything is found, eventually. And the egg-slice mysteriously reappeared in a toy box on Thursday, none the worse for its adventure.
I wish I could say I’m also none the worse, but I’d be lying. Being sleep-deprived has never brought out my better nature. Neither has the need to read the same book aloud twenty times. Yes, twenty. I’m not sure why but yesterday I counted.
Outside, the rain teams down into the garden, which is already a bog from last week’s rain. And the week before.
I look out the bathroom window at the bedraggled remains of my lilies and roses. They thrived initially but then the soggy soil couldn’t hold the lilies upright, and the roses quietly pined for sunshine.
Just like me.
Outside the kettle comes to the boil. I walk quietly down the hall to the kitchen. Careful not to walk on a toy car. My elbow is still recovering from yesterday’s impromptu skating display. As is my rear end.
I was the only one who didn’t see the funny side. It’s hard to feel amused when your tailbone sends out shooting pain and you have trouble getting up from the floor. Well perhaps it was a bit funny. But as I lift the kettle and pour water into my mug, my elbow reminds me yet again of its presence.
Elbows aren’t something I’m usually conscious of. Like tail bones, they’re largely forgotten until something goes wrong.
I stir and prod the teabag, conscious that it’s already seven o’clock. These precious minutes of peace are unexpected. If only I can sit down and drink my tea uninterrupted…
The kitchen at least is as it should be, I think, looking around. I stayed up last night to make sure of that. The egg-slice is in a new position on top of the dresser just until the weekend, when it can safely descend.
There’s a sticky patch on the oak table. I must’ve missed it when I wiped up the spilt custard.
It’ll have to wait.
I take my first grateful sip of tea and lean back in the chair letting the wooden slats support my spine. Minutes pass.
The windows are a blurry mass of racing raindrops. It’ll be another day indoors by the look of it. I thought the weather forecaster looked a bit shifty last night when he spoke of a break in the weather. You simply can’t trust a word they say, can you? No better than our politicians.
My mind starts to come into focus. Thoughts appear. I decide to write a list. It might save some of yesterday’s pandemonium.
But when I open the drawer to the dresser, my notebook isn’t there. Another casualty? Surely I’d have noticed if Willow had managed to get the drawer open? She’s only just turned three, after all. Awful possibilities crowd my mind, blanketed in feelings of guilt. I use the other drawer for cutlery. I shudder at the thought. Next time there’ll be some of those child-safety things in the kitchen.
Another sip of the tea brings back a vague memory of using the notebook. We’d been drawing around the outlines of our hands the other day. I can now remember writing down the date too. Feeling a bit overwhelmed by memories and wanting to preserve this one. I know only too well how quickly time races by. It can’t really be twenty-five years since I made pastry hands, lining up the kids and getting them to place their hands on the sheets of pastry, fingers outstretched. I’d always use the bluntest bread knife. And they’d always move their fingers at a critical moment so we’d have to reposition them. When there was finally a line of pastry hands of various sizes, we’d grate cheese on top and I’d sprinkle paprika. Ten minutes in the oven and I’d have something everyone would eat, and the oven would warm up the kitchen.
A tear unexpectedly trickles down my cheek. I sip tea. It feels comforting. Something that has stayed the same. Just like this oak table.
I’ve changed. I know that. I realised it only too clearly yesterday, as I was slow to get off the floor.
Where have the years gone?
Where has my energy gone too?
Things I took in my stride now occupy far too much of my time. It leaves less room for the other things. The ones memories are built on.
Next door’s car comes to life. I watch as it swims onto the road and causes tiny waves to appear in its wake. Like the thoughts that ripple through my mind. Thoughts and images of the future.
Swimming lessons. School. Driving lessons. All these things lie ahead for Willow.
How much of these times will I be privileged to share?
A little voice disturbs my thoughts. Willow is standing in the doorway, her wispy blonde curls dishevelled, her eyes blank, not yet focussed, still only semi awake.
Smiling I rush over and lift her, sore tailbone forgotten. Elbow forgotten. Even the rain doesn’t touch the happiness I feel at that moment.
Holding my granddaughter in my arms, her soft warm cheek resting against mine, my world is filled with sunshine. Willow nestles against me. Another day has begun.
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About the author
Glynis Scrivens’s short stories have been published in Australia, UK, Ireland, South Africa, US and Scandinavia. Her book Edit is a Four-Letter Word was published by Compass Books in 2015. She writes for Writers' Forum (UK), and has had articles in Pets, Steam Railway, Ireland's Own, and Writing magazine. She lives in Brisbane with her family and a menagerie of hens, ducks, dogs, lorikeets, and a cat called Mr Floof.
www.glynisscrivens.com/wp.
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