It was another solstice morning, nothing special, nothing odd. Birds sung at the top of their lungs. A refreshing breeze, flowed with ease. Brims, magical whims, fondly trickled, in sprinkles. My, my, those thoughts, surely fly. As I watched time pass by, and by, rivers of hidden smiles, it became apparent. That I was the child, of a sole parent. Spoiled rotten, my wishes, never forgotten. Though today, I was tardy for class. A rare feat. When roosters tweet, am forever on my feet. As visions swiftly faded, allowing reality to be traded, atop my exile seat, I soared, set to eat. Yet, today’s dreams seized the best of me. Now, I must hurry, my eyes still blurry. A new town is no reason to frown. I must wash down, and aim for downtown. Alice overslept too, weary of the move, fell off her groove. I mused if I ought to sham being sick, after all, I possess the wit. But slothfulness is foolishness, my daintiness, shall never ruin. I released my pillow, bravely, as I thought about Daisy. Then, for the window I strolled about. In view, blissful trees pranced to the whistle of the wind. Oh, what an emotive swim. My heart filled to the brim.
“Excuse my tardiness, dear lad.
Would tea and toast, make thee glad?”
The table top was fixed to perfection, nourishing, with loads of affection. Exquisite scents, nurturing and calming, as a crafted chandelier, welcoming cheer. Sometimes, a single tear would appear, I ignored it, and sipped on root beer. My tummy was inpatient, growling to the sounds of Beethoven, while my favourite biscuits, baked in the oven. For the forgiving, in morals and values, stood, while others, very well understood. That in sainthood, childhood is found, and it lays the ground, for those to be crowned. I looked forward to a fortunate, boundless day. Be as it may, forever and always. Standing tall, shoulders back, I was ready for class… life… an eternal hour glass.
“The carriage is here, child.
Dash positively, and be not defiled.”
Alice was the gentlest of nannies, hotly, in each nook, and every cranny. She procured noble care of me, even, when we heartily disagreed. Therefore, I was never alone, and always felt, that I belonged. Such a precious gift, to be cared for, and kissed. My poise was never low, for surely, I am not Vincent Van Gogh. Hardly, a little poet boy, which faithfully, plays with toys. Home is where the heart is, I heard someone say. Mine fosters whiz, naught, finer than this. Although, as I penned my views, overwhelmed I was not to rebel, but to propel. Woefully, it was time for farewell. A heartfelt, arrivederci, as I heard the doorbell.
“Good morning, sir.
How do you do?”
© Ernesto Parrilla