I'm seven years old again and I wake up, my mother isn't in sight. I'm disappointed, like an old woman who missed her favourite television show. I know she won't be back for a while, why didnt she wake me up? I usually go everywhere with her, and make sure she kisses me goodbye if I dont. I walk downstairs, the house is quiet, no older sister, no parents. Just me and the maid, who's too busy to be any good company. I look through through the staircase handling, into the living room embossed in gold light. Christmas tree on one end, sparkling blue and silver; Piano untouched and silent; Couches unwrinkled and puffy. Through the sliding doors you can see the garden, it looks lonely. My dog engrossed in his dream, he kicks a little, then stays still once again. I stand on the landing, unmoving, charmed by the surreal atmosphere my usually hectic house is in. I miss my mother. I walk over to the telephone, repeating her cellphone number in my head, pick up the reciever and poise my hand, ready to dial. I catch a whiff, Chanel No. 5 on the phone. It's my mothers perfume, and the familiarity of it is enough to ease my impatience. I feel her close to me, her arms around me and her perfume surrounding my world.
I put the telephone back down and decide I can wait until she gets home.
After that day, I escaped to the small, scented world of the telephone reciever whenever I missed my mother. It was enough to temporarily bring her back to my side.
Happy mothers day, mom. Although you have no idea I'm writing this, and you actually just told me to get off the computer. I love you!