But why a brass band?
To this mother who had a rare opportunity to lie abed for just a while longer, it may as well have been a brass band that marched through the kitchen and around the breakfast table before taking up residence just outside the bedroom door to beat the drums.
I knew it was over when I heard the sound of Little’s feet plodding down the stairs in his signature beat: ker-thunk, ker-thunk, ker-thunk in that way that small people with short legs seem to have. Wait. Make that ‘small people with short legs on old, wooden farmhouse steps.’ Wha…?
Oh, he’d arisen early, I learned in a later briefing. In fact, when the brother who shares his room awoke, there he was, right next to him on his pillow, curled in a small heap beneath Precious Blanket. WHAT??
Hunkered around the breakfast table, they began to talk. Well, they trumpeted, actually, calling across the table to one another in excited voices about our upcoming annual trip to Indianapolis. Through the closed door, I clearly heard words like “watching a movie and eating,” and then “hot tub.” It could have been then that my vision blurred and I missed the rest of their shouted conversation.
Then the knocking started. “Mom, I need twelve bucks for my T-shirt.” “Mom, I need five bucks for this Friday.” “Mom, I need a sock.” “Mom, where’s my money?”
Rolling over, I groaned into my pillow. It was hard to imagine that there’d come a day when mornings here would be still with no brass bands, clanging cymbals, people trumpeting, or would-be tuba players charging the steps. Would the silence, I wondered, ring loud in my ears? Could I get used to the hush, the quiet? Maybe…just maybe…I could…
Oh, well. I’m up now, so carpe diem! Seize the day!
Smiling and waving as I sip my second round of Highlander Grogg, wishing some moments of quietness in your day and mine…