Morning Soap

I think that we sugar coat our memories.  The sun is a little brighter, colors a little more saturated, perhaps the food was a little more delicious and the laughter a little louder.  To say that I was a spoiled child is absolutely correct.  My mother and father gave me all the love and care that I needed and a little more.  I had everything I needed and sometimes even got the stuff I wanted.  My relationship with my extended family was rich and warm. I was spoiled with love, which is the best type of spoiling. 

            They were always so soft, the feeling of the sheets in the spare bedroom at my grandparent’s house.  Wearing my grandpa’s t-shirt, I’d slip into the sheets letting the coolness seep into my skin.  The sheets were tightly tucked under the mattress and were so smooth; smoother than mine at home.  Even the pillows were softer, they were filled with down; luxury at its finest.  I’d scoot down deeper into the comforter and breathe in.  There was always a fresh, soapy smell that enveloped my grandparent’s house.  The smell was strongest in the laundry room, but smelled the best in the linen closet.   The lights were all off, except for the bed side lamp.  It filled the room with warm, golden light.  The night stand still had the book I was reading last time I spent the night.  In fact it was the book that I’d always read while I stayed here:  Boxcar Children.  I was too tired to read it tonight though so when my grandma came to tuck me in and turn the lights out that was it.  I’d quickly fall asleep because this was the safest place, aside from my own home, that I knew.

            Waking up was even more wonderful than falling asleep.  My blankets were warm and cozy and the sun was shining through the blinds heating my face in warm streaks.   I’d want to stay in bed, but the smell of breakfast was too enticing: Eggos.  Oh, sweet waffles of sugary goodness! You warm, crisp, sugary pastry of delight!  Why was I cursed with the inability to eat more than one!?  I’d quickly walk into the kitchen to greet my grandparents, my aunt and my cousins.   Every morning, without fault, my grandmother would greet me with: “Good-Morning Sunshine”.  My grandfather, without a doubt, would be sitting at the table black coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other.  On the table next to him would be toasted sourdough bread.  The toast would be a little burnt, just the way he liked in, and smothered in butter.  My cousins had already been up for a while, they were early risers, so they had already eaten breakfast, but they remained at the table.  Ellie (the eldest) would read the comics, and Hannah (the younger of the two but my age) would be drawing something, maybe a fairy wonderland.  And my aunt would definitely be sitting on the couch in the living room.  She would be crocheting maybe, or reading a book, sometimes both. 

            As the morning turned to daylight, the summer sun would tease us until we grabbed our bathing suits and ran down to the lake.  Holding our towels above our heads as we ran, we looked like mini-supermen with bright capes as we race to the water: “whoever gets in the water first, wins!”  Our speed made them flap, but our laughter made them dance.  Usually, I won this race to victory, but this year, Hannah won.  But not by much, I assure you.  We’d swim and play and explore until dinnertime or until my mom came, whichever tragedy came first.   Because with either our adventures ended:  the mermaid princesses were forced to grow legs and walk back to the house.  And with my hair freshly dried, I would watch as five silly people would make faces at me until the car was out of site.

            I think that we sugar coat our memories.  But sometimes, our reality is sugar coated.  And this is bliss.