good morning

The old man stirred lazily, he’d slept the deep, yet still vaguely fitful, sleep one did when they were in a bed not their own. Through his haze he was, suddenly and softly, aware of the other presence in the warmly upholstered guest room. And, of course, he knew exactly who that presence was (at whatever hellishly early hour of the new morning it was it could only be her.)

Reluctantly, the old man allowed his eyes to slide halfway open and, sure enough, he met the eyes he was expecting. She was staring at him with the kind of intense focus that only cats, serial killers, and determined four-year-old girls could pull off so effortlessly.

The little girl, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, was wearing a bright (too bright by half for old eyes suddenly trying to cope with the crack of dawn, the old man thought fleetingly) sleeper covered with images of cartoon characters the old man couldn’t identify if his life depended on it. She was waiting, holding a stuffed cow (her boon companion for most of her life), and waiting, impatiently patient.

“Papa?” the little girl, knowing that the old man was…finally!...awake, said in a stage whisper that seemed (to the old man anyway) to thunder through the stillness of the morning.

The old man allowed his eyes to slide closed and grunted sleepy man-sounds hoping to throw her off the scent.

“You need to get up,” the little girl, not fooled for an instant, said resolutely.

The old man stifled an affectionate laugh and opened his eyes again. “But it’s Saturday morning…” he said, not trying to stifle a sincere yawn.

The little girl frowned. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that since the fact that it was Saturday morning was exactly the point…exactly the reason why she wanted him to get up. She shrugged. “You need to get up,” she repeated, undaunted, sure that this time would be the charm.

The old man knew that this was not a battle he was going to win but he tried one more feint just the same. “Where are Mommy and Daddy?” he asked, hoping to redirect her attention to her parents sleeping down the hall in the master bedroom.

The little girl sighed, patiently impatient. “They’re still sleeping,” she said. “We need to get up.”

The old man yawned and stretched and, as he’d known that he would, he surrendered. Through his haze he somehow found himself transported…his favorite ratty old robe over his pajamas, coffee cup in hand…from his warm bed to the cozy comfort on the family room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the couch to his back and his granddaughter on the floor next to him with a cup of milk in hand, watching television. The old man didn’t completely understand what was on television…it seemed to be about loudly colored locomotives that talked…but the little girl, snuggled close against his arm, obligingly was explaining the goings-on.

“See, Papa?” the little girl said, smiling up at him as the program finished, “you needed to get up or you would have missed it.”

The old man smiled, stifling yet another yawn, and bent down and kissed the top of the little girl’s head. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to miss it.”

- for Shelby Elise -