|View single post by in media res|
|Posted: Sat Aug 19th, 2017 06:32 am||
in media res
I arrive home, tired from work.
My wife yells with a smile from the kitchen,
“Hi, Honey, we’re having meatloaf tonight.
Kids won’t be here!”
I can feel the Exclamation Point!
“Sounds good,” I say. I do love her meatloaf.
And I know what “Kids won’t be here,"
With an Exclamation Point means!
It translates “Us! Alone! TONIGHT!”
My son rushes by, “Hi, Dad. I’ll be home early. Gotta run”.
I remember those same words when I said them to my Father.
“Home before ten,” I say to my son.
Just like my Father would say “Home before Nine.
Nine meant ten...back then.
"Tempora Mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis."*
My son will be home by Midnight. Good kid.
Hey...Summer is for fun.
My daughter rushes up, gives me a peck on the cheek.
Dashes out the door, “Will be home early.”
I say “Where are you…?”
She is gone.
Hey...Summer – especially August - is for fun.
I grab the bottle of Scotch. Pour a nice pour. No ice.
Sit on the couch, but do not turn on the TV.
A little white dog, our Bichon Frise’, jumps up next to me.
Little Beauregard. He rests his head upon my lap.
Looks up at me with those deep black marble eyes
That look directly into my soul
As any good dog does.
He asks, “What’s the matter?”
You can't hide anything from a dog.
I quietly say to him, “Barcelona.”
He is French. He seems to understand.
He nuzzles closer.
I sip my Scotch.