Breakfast and a Song (A glimpse of childhood nostalgia)

 I awaken to the sound of rain pummeling the flat roof of our 1970's Bahamian style house. The flat roof is not what makes our abode Bahamian. It was a feature asked of the architect so Papa could land his imaginary helicopter on the roof. It's been over a decade now since the house was constructed, and not once has a helicopter landed on it.

  I throw back the covers and crawl to the end of the bed where I part the vertical blinds to look outside. With my head suspended over the floor vent, a slightly sour-smelling chill blows in my face. Florida's humidity has seeped into every crack and crevice of this home, and it is useless to think you can stop the mold and mildew that ensues. I don't mind the smell though. It is a subtle odor, and the cold air feels good on my face.

  Through my sliding glass door, the late summer morning is dark green and dull gray. Rain is pooling at the edge of the roof and spills onto the wooden deck below, splashing droplets against my sliding glass door. The velocity of the drip has eaten off the paint, and the constant moisture is starting to soften the pine boards. Papa will start replacing them soon, but not today.

  Another smell is coming to me, stronger now than the A/C, something like bacon grease. Breakfast most mornings is grocery store brand corn flakes with banana sliced over top, or store brand Pop-tarts, or occasionally cinnamon toast. This morning's breakfast smells like something heartier, hearty enough to get me out of bed before 9am.

  As I open my bedroom door, the smell from the kitchen is stronger, and I can hear Papa singing. Papa only sings when he cooks. Sometimes it's Willie Nelson, sometimes Fats Domino. Other times his voice is more operatic and I can't make out the lyrics. Today it's Buddy Holly and The Crickets, "Oh, Boy!". I enter the kitchen and sidle up beside the singing chef. He notices me and makes a face like he's surprised by what's sizzling in the pan. "Holy Eggs", he says with a gasp. I look at him and grin before returning to the living room where Mom is reading the newspaper in a long red night shirt that says across the chest "Too Pooped to Pop".

  I see the 'funnies' on the carpet beside her bentwood rocker. I won't read them yet - Papa and I will read them together later, and then I will use my Silly Putty to make prints of Cathy and Garfield and Marmaduke. There's nothing on TV on Sunday morning except The 700 Club, so I go to the sliding glass door next to her and sit on the floor by another blowing A/C vent. I watch the rain and the river beyond as Papa continues to sing:

"All of my love and all of my kisses,

You don't know what you've been missing,

Oh, boy!"

And I know one day I will miss this...