100 Days

Easter is a big deal for her dad. Every year he brings out the patterned bone china for the grand lunch he so lovingly prepares, and decks the house with branches and eggs speckled with gold. His absolute favorite Easter tradition is to wake her up at the crack of dawn and drive to the beach to see the sun rise over the water. She pinky-promises him that one day she'll do the same with her kids. 

She tells you the water is different here. If you stay up long enough, you might catch the sea singing the sort of lullabies that coax a deep sleep into your eyes. You laugh and give her grief for her tall tales, but as you lie awake in bed at 3 in the morning, you secretly hope she isn't wrong. 

Her skin was always warm and golden, and he swore that she always smelled faintly of a memory he had of long ago California summers. He was absolutely, madly in love with her and all he wanted to do was proclaim it from the rooftops. 

He liked to tend the fireplace during the cold months, bringing as many small logs his 9-year old arms could carry from the small woodpile out back. His mother would sit in her recliner with the Sunday crossword as he squatted by the hearth, poking at the embers, watching them turn to ashes and soot.

I remember being eleven, bored on a hot Tuesday night. My brother yelled for me from the street, and when I came out to meet him, he had our bikes out and the biggest grin on his face. That night I pedaled that bright purple kid's bike like I was soaring in the air, leaving my 16-year old brother in the dust. He still tells everyone that story, of the one time I ever beat him at anything. 

he always loved the Breakfast at Tiffany's opening scene: the blue framed picture windows with their opulent displays, Audrey and her breakfast danish... it was all so wistful and oddly familiar to her, like a half forgotten dream.