Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Are we there yet?

When I was in high school, everyone told me that when I went away to college, I would begin to call college home. It was just the natural order of things, the duality of home with family and home being with friends. 

so I find myself in the awkward duality place now. we're on spring break. I drove home right after school. The roads were clear and the traffic was light [amazing for that time of day] I paused at the halfway point to to see if there were any sales at the outlets and scored some pants that fit - realized I only forgot one little thing that we can take care of easily in the morning. Aside from total silence and no cat, I fell asleep easily.

What woke me up, as it always has, was my mother's voice on the phone. For mom to be on the phone in the middle of the night means either: 

  1. The mother [and I mean it when I say mother] of all snowstorms has hit, which means this is the "school is cancelled" phone call, so she's calling a hand full of other O's and P's in her building. [her district is 'old fashioned' and still has a phone tree, which seems to work better than email alerts or text messages, which people sometimes don't get... ]
  2. Someone has died. 

I met her in the hall asking "What time is it?" It's two in the morning. I offered to drive since I don't have to be at work tomorrow... today. Mom said she'd be fine. Grandpa was in a lot of pain, and was asking for her. There were little claws clicking on the hardwood.

And then who should appear but Bruce. Bruce is the dog. Bruce goes for a walk at oh-dark-thirty every morning. My dad was awake at this point and was ready to drive. Which left me with Mr. Prancy-pants. 

Walking is the one thing I miss about having a dog. Not at unGodly hours like 2 AM, but McScrufferson is a sweetie pie when he wants to be. He didn't feel like giving me the campus tour this morning, and for that I am grateful. 
It is a little strange being in a house with evidence of life not my own. Sherry, the little black cat, is in a chatty mood, lapping up what I suspect is the dregs of someone's long forgotten coffee [at least it's not caffeinated]. We found her and her litter mates as kittens the summer we moved into our house. Dad wasn't going to let us keep any of them. I was in first or second grade at the time and told this cat she had to do something [because that's what you do at 7, talk to the cat]. So this one little black cat kept following Dad around the yard, and would let him pet her, and would talk to him. So... he supposed we could keep that one. But no wussy names like Fluffy or Princess. I named her Scheherazade, from 1001 Nights, for the girl who saved her life by her wit, wisdom and charm. Ma chéri is now 20. Which is nothing to sneeze at for a cat. 

It's now 4 AM. No one is home yet. 

They say there's linings made of silver, folded inside each rainy cloud. They say. 
I'm going to have to wait for retrospect to deliver the introspective on where exactly the silver lining is in all of this. Or maybe I'm just tired and hungry, and should try go back to sleep.  

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