I sigh myself awake.
Sheila used to like to rub her hands on the top of my head. Especially after a haircut. It drove me absolutely mad.
Our hair is different. Was. Her hair is long and soft and wavy. Was. Her hair was darker than mine, too, at least a little. That must be why she liked touching mine, which was textured instead of smooth. Close-cropped instead of long.
I would let her touch my head a thousand times a day, or kiss my cheeks, if she could only be not-dead again.
My door creaks open. “Morning, sweetie.”
Mom shovels folded laundry out of the basket in the doorway and onto my rug. It softly plops in little piles that I won’t ever put away, even though Mom is right now saying, “Put these away, okay?”
Mom doing laundry is far too normal. How is it that all the normal stuff just keeps happening?
And how does she always know exactly when I’m going to wake up? It’s creepy. Or maybe I woke up because I sensed her there.
Things to not ponder as I roll over and snuggle deeper. I had a good dream. Maybe I can get another.
“Are you getting up?” Mom says. “I made waffles.”
“I don’t like waffles.”
Her frown is audible. “You love waffles.”
She’s wrong. “Go away.”
“The first batch is already cold,” she says. “When will you be down? Should I unplug the waffle iron?”
“Sounds like a safe bet to me.”
“Sweetie.”
“Go away. Why are you in here? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”
“You need clean clothes.”
“Not really.”
“Fine. Be dirty.”
The door creaks shut.