The Ordinary Day in Generally Speaking...

This is the best thing I think I ever wrote. It was things like this that made me love to write.

The Ordinary Day Saturday, February 23, 2002

As twilight settles over the rooftops of the city, I gaze out from my window on the second floor. I can smell the flowers down below in the garden, the butter-yellow daffodil trumpets, the shimmery white lantana, which always made such good bridal bouquets for my Barbies. The room I am in is silent, still redolent with the essence of its prior occupant, gone these many years. There is no sadness, only memories of a good woman and a sense of peace.

I can hear the sounds of traffic far below, and the sounds of dinner being prepared in another part of the house. The clink of a piece of silverware against glass, briskly stirring. The faintly acrid scent of oil heating in an old cast iron frying pan. From another room, the incessant changing of channels and my father's deep chuckle as he talks to someone over the telephone.

Toenails click across the linoleum, the tile, then the hardwood, as I am checked on by a friendly guardian. I mark his progress as he dutifully checks on me, then taps away to report to his mistress. I do not mind the tabs kept on me. They are a sign that I am loved, wanted.

I turn my attention back to the window, trying to capture this moment, for what I cannot know. I see the lights on the buildings far away slowly come to life, and I know that somewhere down there, men are leaving work, women too. Children are washing away the stickiness of the day in the Kid Wash, or lining up with their parents to view an exhibit from a far off land. A part of me wishes that I too were there, while another part of me has no desire to ever move from this spot.

It is possible to see the light leave the day in stages at this point. To mark the passing of time in degrees. Soon I will be called from my perch, to partake of the effort made in the kitchen.

A warm breeze touches my skin. There is a comfortable feeling that envelopes me, though it will be many years until I know what exactly caused that feeling. It will take the touch of death and the hand of time to show me why this moment is so precious. For I am only ten years old.

It will be two years before this house is sold. That same year, the clicking of toenails will end forever, as my guardian rests his head on his paws and slips away after 21 good years. It will be another seven before the beloved woman in the kitchen hangs up her fork and bowl and leaves me all alone in this world. Four years after that, the telephone will be placed in its cradle forever and the chuckle will end with a smirk.

That was the last time I remember being truly alive before sadness touched me. That is the last time that I knew the peace that comes from having no responsibilities, no time constraints, no painful memories to distract me from taking time to smell the roses. Or the lantana, for that matter. That is the last time that I will look out over the rooftops and be able to watch my city come to life around me through the eyes of childhood.

That is the day that I started to grow up. It is the last day of my childhood, of my freedom.

And though I didn't know at the time why I marked that ordinary day so clearly in my mind, I do now. Time has taught me. Gone is the security, the endless supply of time, the summer vacations that lasted just long enough. Twilight has gone, taking my childhood away with it, over the rooftops of my city. And I watched it go.