STORIES: A Seasonal Life (Continuation, Part II)

First William, who doesn’t like alarm clocks except the one I have set within myself. My fingers gently touch his shoulder, and as he wakens, he groans and reaches for the glass of water I have brought him. He’ll quench his thirst half raised upon an elbow, half alert to the fact that I am here. He extends the empty glass out trusting me to take it, opens his eyes and mumbles recognition. No morning kiss—that is scheduled later in our routine, when he leaves the house and heads out to his life.
Then on to Christopher, my firstborn golden child. Even in my womb you held such power. You accomplished with your being what I could not with love, and brought us all together. You looked like your father; and lucky too—a boy. Your tiny penis was the key that unlocked his heart and laid out your future. But never say this to your sister. She is so sensitive these days. I stand and watch you sleep a minute longer, feeling selfish for taking from your life this one more moment but leave you dreaming through it while I satisfy myself. This time next year I’ll pass by your empty room. Who will wake you at M.I.T.? I hesitate for just three seconds more and call out softly. “Christopher, it’s time to rise,” I say. He smiles before his eyes are even open to connect with mine. I smile and turn, padding down the hall to rouse the next.
Josh, the baby, now nine and laughing all the time. Even as you sleep you lie there grinning. Your body splayed out beneath the covers, a show of confidence and faith in your world and us. Or are you running in your dreams through the fields across the road, as you often do as often as you can. Your dusty dirt-brown hair is ruffled by the pillow, as if you still were playing in the summer breeze. You idolize your older brother, unaware yet of the difference between you. You believe it is because he’s older that your father gives him your portion of his time. I make up what I can, but you well know that girls just can’t throw balls. Too sweet to tell me, you sigh and let me play; roll your eyes when for the dozenth time I say I’m sorry as the ball lands and rolls ten feet before you. In innocence you ignore Sarah’s exasperated snort. To you she is impatient. She is, but you do not as yet know why. In this room I can walk up to the bedside, and I lean and kiss him loudly on his forehead. The only one who still allows this morning ritual; he wakes and throws his arms around my neck to scream “Good morning!” in my ear.
And lastly, Sarah. So much like me it hurts to think what life could do to you. Emotional (a woman), moody (typical, as well), but mostly compromising in your wisdom, but that one trait unrecognized by William, who has never sought the reason in eighteen years in me. A good provider, good natured and agreeable is what he offers us, and that is livable. But you, my daughter, who has no reason to feel the guilt I do, are unconvinced you couldn’t try for more. You fully understand the family order, but rebel against it and resent me all the more somehow for not fixing it before you were born. My Sarah, your natural loving disposition slowly being sidetracked by emerging independence that I have to let you win. I walk across the purple carpet she herself had chosen, and three feet from her side I stop and catch my breath. Beautiful in the morning sunlight as she lays there, an astounding combination of the best we had to give. “Sarah, honey, time to get up,” I say, knowing she is already halfway awake and waiting for me. She opens her eyes and looks straight into mine; a half smile and a whispered, “Hi.”
They come down in the order they were awakened. Come into the kitchen where I have their juices, vitamins, cereals and toasts laid out according to their choices.