Vision
(or How I Learned to Have a Meaningful Relationship With My Living Room Furniture)
by Deb Pacheco
She's 17 going on 27. I gave her a Gaelic name. It means "a vision."
She looks at me with scorn. It is so early in the morning and she is obviously not pleased to see the day arrive.
Unfortunately, I am the first human being her antagonistic, green eyes catch. These critical eyes, slanted, and swollen with sleep are unready to see any beauty in this day. And although she has seen just barely 6,300 days in her entire life, (as opposed to my 17,000 + days, but who's counting?) she is determined to be annoyed at this one.
She sends a scowl my way as she shuffles past me on her way to the sofa.
"Mmmfft," she mutters.
I watch her flop face first into the dark, velvety sofa. It quickly transforms into an unkempt pile of hair, gangly arms and legs, and pillows.
I pour coffee and talk to the dog in a sweet whisper,"Did you sleep well? Oh, you're such a good boy." He jumps up and down at my legs while I scratch his pointy ears. Then he races over to the silent sofa, licks a bare arm, and gets met with a groan and a soft push.
"Ashleen, do you want tea?" I ask the sofa, then sip my coffee. The sofa doesn't respond. I walk over to it and sit at the edge. My hand gently touches her milky forehead and glides over the top of her dark hair, smoothing strays as it travels. The sofa flinches, says,"Uuoaa," so I pull my hand away.
"Are you showering today, baby?" I ask her. Again, the sofa doesn't answer. It just sighs deeply, moans, and forces its occupant to sit up. She drags herself to the bathroom and I hear the shower begin.
When she emerges from the warm fog, she is smiling, wet, and awake. With her face tilted toward the ceiling, she closes her eyes, puckers her soft lips, and waits for her good morning kiss from me. Jubilantly, she quickly and lightly pads back to her lioness' den to continue her grooming ritual.
But fifteen minutes later when she reenters our shared world, she's sneering with contempt again. I know enough not to speak, smile, or look her way. We will begin our day silently, again. It's the way we begin many days, both in our own separate peace. When we arrive at school, I will smile and gently kiss her. She will take the smile and kiss, tuck them in her backpack and save them for later when she needs me. After all, I am her mother and she is my vision. And we are both still "works-in-progress".
An almost-native New Mexican, Deb Pacheco lives in Albuquerque with her only child. She loves every age her daughter has been and swears that each age is even better than the last. Deb has an M.A. in Education and teaches 5th graders. She is currently working on a children's book which she absolutely intends to finish during her lifetime.
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