Waiting for Patrick

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I write this sitting curled up cross-legged in a patch of sunshine. Rissa is in a similar patch just across the room – we’re currently the only two at home. Life is good here, despite the odd worry that crops up once in a while.

Bex has taken to smirking at me when I stumble bleary-eyed out of my room in the mornings; looking up from her perch on the sofa to flash me a fiendish, entirely-too-wide-awake grin. My mind is at its most sluggish, and I blink at her wordlessly for a few seconds before mumbling the tail end of whatever my train of thought might be. It hardly ever makes sense, because somewhere along the path from my brain to my tongue, the words generally get altered to an “ugh” or similar wordless grunt.

I am in love with the sunshine. We all are (although the true winner of Grace’s heart might just be her bed. ) If we all happen to be home at once, you’ll generally find us sprawled out over our little blue porch, reading or scribbling in a journal or just sitting in the sun.

(Note: Patrick is our mailman – though his name isn’t actually Patrick. It is my opinion that all mailmen ought to be named Patrick. Ours is a jolly-looking fellow with a white beard and a safari hat. Doubtless he adds a little spice to his daily rounds by imagining himself on the veldt as he walks from door to door, humming sea chanties – he also looks vaguely old-salt-ish – and delivering life-saving packets of malaria medicine into each person’s mailbox.)

(yes, he totally does that. *nods*)

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