Family Breakfast

Here. Have a salutation, and let's get on with life. Today, because it suits me, I am the Story Teller. I'm in the mood to describe a breakfast scene. Some elements you will be familiar with; others may shock you. Perhaps you will find you care very little, in which case, you have my respect. It is not so easy to be perfectly apathetic. At any rate, I've gotten this far, so let us observe.

It is 7:15am. Good - nay, glorious! smells are wafting about, bouyed upwards by unusually lively conversation. The speakers are a family gathered around a home-made table. Golden, syrup drenched waffles grace every plate and there are large scraps of patterned paper scattered between cold glasses of milk and the occasional cup of orange juice. The next-to-youngest, fourth-from-oldest (but fifteen - already!) has forgotten her waffle, and the oldest, the boy (he prefers 'guy', and doesn't know what to make of 'man') is eyeing it and wondering how she got her priorities scrambled so. The mother eyes the oldest, in case he makes a move for the waffle.

Next-to-youngest eyes no one and tears hunks of paper from a box crammed with potential, not bothering to keep the wrapping intact. The crunching, scrunching, crinkling sound is to be reveled in - after all, this is a Birthday - but the voices soon overpower it. There is guessing to be done.

"It's gumboots. I know it... Yesss, I love these! Thanks Mom!"

"They weren't cheap. Guard them with your life."

"Open another one."

Next-to-youngest is handed another gift.

"Betcha that one's gumboots too."

A necessary part of the guessing game is to throw the opener off the scent. But Next-to-youngest is no fool.

"Yeah, looks like it could be the right size...if you were a mouse. Idiot."

Next-to-oldest says drily "Maybe it's a goat fetus. And you can grow it or something."

There is a brief silence. Everyone looks incredulously her way. And then hilarity breaks out. Next-to-youngest does indeed love goats. Luckily for all present, the wrapping falls away to reveal a christmas mug instead. Next-to-youngest celebrates, and the family is pleased that this is a good day for her.

Alone on the counter, on a vantage point at once near and far, the Story Teller chafes in impatience. There is food uneaten! And I want it. What is there to do but add to the noise? I meow urgently. I yowl a bit. I jump down from my perch and rub up against their legs and purr, to show how happy I am that they have finally noticed me starving to death, and that I will probably forgive them once they hand over the scraps. Ah, I can almost taste them - and oldest has lifted me up, up, towards the heady smell of syrup! and wait, no, we are moving away! Thumpthumpthump. We galumph down the stairs three steps at a time and I am hurled out the door mercilessly.

And that is life, is it not? True apathy is impossible. Love is a risk. Necessary, yes, but who can you trust? All for one...and that is all.
- Cat