Читать книгу Sing For Me - Betsy Jiron - Страница 7

Prelude

It was Sunday morning when I woke to the sound of the vacuum. The heat from my single size waterbed was about 15 degrees too high and the sweat from my chest had soaked my nightshirt.

I learned to associate the sound of the vacuum with a feeling of comfort. Not only did it mean I didn't have to do it, it meant Dad was doing it. When Dad did our “jobs”, he was in an exceptional mood.

I rolled myself out of bed and opened my shades. It was a beautiful Colorado day. I cracked the window to feel the breeze and smell the crisp clear air. As I gazed out the window, I felt a light familiar tug on my nightshirt. I looked down and smiled at my baby sister's beautiful smile and big brown eyes. I didn't have to force myself to breathe when she was near me.

Sunday was the one-day a week the “family” ate breakfast together. My three brothers; Derren, Max and Niko, my sister Marissa, Step-mom, dad and myself gathered around the large oak table for our Sunday morning meal. This was normally followed by a chapter or two of the Children's Bible. This was always read by my father. I believe this was more for my step-mom than our spiritual well-being. She liked to pretend we were a real family.

Sunday seemed to be the only day a week I wasn't battling some sort of emotional trauma endured by the cursed vocal chords of my parents. My step-mom (which I normally referred to as “step-monster”) wasn't creative by any means with her attempt at degrading me verbally. However, they still hurt. There were rare occasions when she would say something pleasant, but the sound of her voice made me want to vomit on her uppity brand name clothes.

I never grew out of the comfort of Sunday mornings. To this day, I start the mornings with the vacuum…and my own children's big brown eyes.