Sticky Situations

There was always hope on Saturday mornings and it came in the form of a fluffy pancake. Dad would wake up and grind the coffee beans--each pulse releasing a delicate yet bold aroma in the still air. Mom would soon follow in her soft, oversized pink robe. Her wet hair freshly combed out of her face and her skin dewy and slick from her Oil of Olay.
There was no tension on Saturday mornings. The TV boasted Bugs Bunny and company and the dog was subdued by the couch. You were on the floor, prone, in your footed pajamas playing with an imagination that can only exist in a child's mind. You were an Indian princess, a silver wolf, the president. You were seven and in love. In love in the way that there were no schedules, no possibility for hurt. This was how it always was.
The call to breakfast awakens you into another fantasy. Warm, Bisquick pancakes fresh off the griddle. The butter sizzles and melts, the syrup coats the delicate dough with a sugary perfection. Your little sister uses her fork. The family is proud. Orange juice--sweet, sour and then the pulp: your biggest concern. Bacon, fried and crisp--crunches and breaks apart. Forks scraping, feet kicking, cups clanging. This is life on Saturday mornings.
What you don't see isn't important then. The mail from Friday in a pile by the microwave. The bills, the coupons to save ten cents off of a pound of ground beef. A blinking red on the message machine. Call the doctor's office. It's important. But it's not. Not on Saturday mornings. When the world is still for a little while. You are in your pajamas and your fingers are sticky.