In re: life at my grandparents’ house…
If this house were a ship on the ocean, we’d constantly be in danger of capsizing.
It starts in the evening with a yawn. Two, then three and in the wee hours a fourth convene down the narrow hallway and file into the berths. Instead of waves, the air is thick with the reverberations of men and dogs. Someone is sleepless shortly after the last lies down. The coffee grinder sounds from another corner of the house. One by one we gather, grunting until a cup sits in our hands. A piece of bread sat before us on a plate. Soon everyone is there, stumbling to more coffee, more bread, dogs blocking the passages between the legs of the stools.
In the day, we ebb and flow — to the shower, to the office, to the kitchen. Dogs go in, dogs go out. Storms flare and die. Ones and twos and threes. In the evening, we gather to watch the news. A vapid weatherman promises rain. We all agree that he doesn’t know what he is talking about. The yawning starts again.