Though I chewed slowly, I kept a steady pace through dinner and often pushed aside the palate-cleansing sweet in favor of speeding off to the bathroom, brushing my teeth, scrambling into pyjamas, racing off to the bedroom and diving between the sheets – for sleeping meant dreaming.
Most children fought bedtime. I embraced sleep’s sweet oblivion.
Long before mid-summer, I was already too late: the evening chorus, sung in rounds, had long since commenced. The joy of our lives was already tucked into his crib in his corner of the room, long eyelashes aflutter. His breaths attuned to the cicadian symphony’s rhythm: they sang in rounds, and his diminutive exhales harmonized with their downbeat.
As day slipped into dusk, the symphony was punctuated by a horn – the neighbor-man calling into the night, beckoning his children home. Dad’s goodnight came toward the end of the movement, one per cheek. A sweet low note – bassoons, perhaps – were my mother joining us for one last caress.
In this time between light and stars, I could feel the earth move on its axis, could hear the dog barking for its young masters to hurry home (he was hungry). The cicadas song became a symphony – first sound, then colors. And when I eventually dreamed, I found everything absurd by daylight had transformed into a myriad possibilities.
Inspired by the Scintilla Project’s Day 4′s prompts.
(Now the question is – which prompt inspired me more?)