At The Window Seat

At The Window Seat

I was able to spend a few days
with my Mom and while knowing the
window seat was there, never really
gave it a thought. That is until I saw
my Mom sit upon it.

It rests there by design, as though
even the forgotten builders
understood a young shrill voice
would one day cry mine;

It was the honorees place who
established first dibs upon the
precious space; doling areas for
fellow siblings and friends toys
like a feudal lord divides his lands
one to each who best develops his
or her place.

Not without responsibility did such a
lofty tile decree, in the winter
boots and shoes left by the back
door, coats fell nearby as all must
be done by unwritten mandate,
if breached, the serfs as one would
rise up and oust thee.

Summer was a time when as the
days grew from warm to hot,
sometimes a visiting relative might in
a non-violent coup, by her beauty or
his handsome new features, manage
to all win all of said title without
lifting a finger.

How they succeeded at this at times
was seemingly beyond my grasp,
I begin to notice his little furrow of the
brow and her slight pout of lips that
weakened the seats value and
dissolved any order and as violations
mounted quiet negotiations were
taking place in enclaves where
genders were not allowed to breach.

I got a summer job.

The coups and such were still being
counted as my responsibilities grew,
silly things like the window seat no
longer mattered.

When the cushions appeared, Mom
just brushed it off as a flight of fancy;
something to do with silly
old pillows no one barely sits there
any more, she smiled and offered
me a seat.

Having made us coffee, a habit I
picked up while in the fifth grade,
we lived not together so Mom
could not know till I told her about
boiling my Dads used coffee grounds
after he and my Step-Mother left for
work. I felt guilty about this but
continued until I began to pilfer
fresh ground coffee; when found out
and warned on the dangers of stained
teeth I was given an alternative
named Postum.

Ok.

It tastes great at the first cup,
then good at the second, okay
at the third if you can make it
that far, because it loses flavor
and then–bland.

Enough of that.

I handed a cup to Mom, she
thanked me. She mused about
the seat and how it seemed
abandoned now. I knew that
she missed the buzz, but
understood the bedlam of
children at play.

I told her that running and
playing about the house
seemed not that long ago.
She chuckled I always loved
how she laughed. Seems as
though when the responsibilities
mount, the humor is first to suffer.

Life offers and demands much,
the more threads, the harder the
weave. Daily demands often trump
fun, any moment of laughter is to
be relished.

As a child I never realized the fun
interaction could bring, isolation
was my solitary friend or having a
book to read. I did not grow up
around sisters and brothers, for
the most of the summers unity
was by chance not often by design.

I did not mind.

How grateful to my Mom, I guess
she may never realize. Thank you
and gifts seem not enough. I wish
I had the means to take care of her
needs, so she might not want.
This is not realistic because I know
myself and it would not be fair to
her as a reminder of who I am.

Gratitude is enough and with her
family surrounding her, I need not
worry. I pray that life and GODS
mercy will make her future peaceful
and filled with wonders.

The window seat is still there, waiting
for the next bunch of combatants,
to add to its mystique.

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