Saturday mornings, Megan woke up first. She claimed Daddy’s chair directly across from the tv; I settled for the couch. We’d yet to reupholster its brown ribbed and pilled surface. It was comfortable and always had throw pillows that made do, made it presentable enough until it could be replaced with something better and more expensive.
Mama painted the kitchen cabinets a cheerful color called “giraffe.” I liked it. Mama liked it for awhile, too. Later the cabinets would be “antique white,” which I’d guess they still are. We all changed and moved away from where we were younger together, my family and me.
That kitten is Bobby. He’s an orphaned Manx my mom adopted. He was still normal then, though malnourished and tiny. When he got declawed, he lost all sanity. Since then, he’s cried to be out when inside. Inside, when out. He is beaten up a lot by other cats in the new neighborhood, cats who don’t know what it is to want.
Megan and I had bangs. Mama cut them. This picture was taken a long time before I became so critical of myself and started to project my insecurity on my younger sister, whom I thought my parents might love more. I’m sorry for all that now. Things have gotten better with her, but I don’t think I’d let my mom take a random picture of me early Saturday morning, before hair or teeth are brushed, ever again. I don’t think Megan would, either. (Both of us, however, still eat popsicles for breakfast sometimes).
And Mama, a more sophisticated, well-to-do homeowner years later, would never again paint anything a color so loud as “giraffe.”
so that is your natural hair color
Did you ever get that Smith and Wollensky dinner?
Cade still owes me! Thanks for the reminder.
Yep. My natural color is called “dirty blonde” in Texas, a name I dislike. It has quite a bit of red in it, too.