Breakfast at Tiffany's

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The three of them used to have breakfast together every morning.

My mother would get up and start the coffee. My dad would get back from his morning run and jump in the shower while breakfast was being prepared. My sister would blast music in her room and worked her makeup and hair done to what she thought was perfection.

My mother would be mostly screaming and cursing.

First, at my dad for making a mess in the bathroom and bringing in his muddy running shoes. She had just cleaned the floors but no one ever cared about her efforts. Maybe when she dies they will notice how much she did around the house. The floors were always clean. Mostly because she was always cleaning them and no one was really allowed to walk on them.

Only dad would do it to prove his point. It was his house and he would do whatever he pleased. 

Then my mother would turn on my sister. The music was too loud, her outfit atrocious. Her hair and general style looked more like a scarecrow, in an effort to intimidate other kids. Spiked, hydrogen peroxide bleached hair and baggy pants. How can you go to school looking like that? my mother would ask.

To complete the cacophony, my mother would yell at me for still being in bed like I wasn’t aware of the consequence of my actions. You’ll miss breakfast!

And I did. Every. Single. Morning.  

The thought of adding my voice to the fray suppressed my appetite.

Up by 7am to get dressed and catch the bus a 15 minute walk from our house. Waking up that early was a daunting task. Add to that the strong smell of food made with contempt, pettiness and resentment, the same meal she would serve for dinner, I figured I could wait. I stole another minute in bed, with my eyes closed, eyes closed, eavesdropping on their lives.

Breakfast was always the same, served on a cheap plastic cover protecting the expensive glass table. My mother, still in her robe, drank the first pot of coffee. Scalding hot and black as night. She drank a gigantic mug like it was the only thing that could understand her. She would wake up in a terrible mood, every single morning. Droopy eye bags, deep frowns, pursed lips. Like she hadn’t slept in years. 

The second pot of coffee would be divided by my dad and sister. They mixed it with hot milk poured from a small kettle. The smell of scalding milk was enough to induce nausea. They would have rolls with ham and cheese or butter or  quince marmalade.

The kitchen tv would be turned on, a deflector in case no one had anything to say.

The village breadmaker, Sr. Americo, hand delivered the rolls every morning at 5 am or so. He hung bags of bread on door knobs, quietly. Could he ever imagine the kind of days his labour would fuel?

On a good day, my dad would tell stories about something from the day before or a snake he saw on the trail in the morning, to my mother’s disdain. She hated when anyone would do anything or experience anything or enjoy anything. In her mind it was an insult that others would live or feel anything without her. Sometimes, my sister would interject with some anecdote about her being the coolest person in school or how everyone was afraid of her on the bus. My mother's screams would turn into insults and quickly escalated to aggressive bangs on my door. I was going to drive her to a madhouse, she would say. 

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I would always answer, “Ja Vou!” to silence her but soon forgot my promise in the face of temptation, a few more minutes of sleep.

A zombie-like figure finally got up while my mind would stay in bed, still cozy and delighted. I would drag my feet to the closet. Lifted a heavy arm to pull something down from a hanger. Nothing fitting well or coordinated.I wrestled my hair in a bun and pray to God my mother would not force me to brush my teeth.

I hated brushing my teeth.

I would awkwardly put on my shoes, while mommy dearest would keep the slurs coming. Often she would pair them up with some spanking and slapping. I would put my backpack, daydreaming of the moment I’d be back in bed.

My sister and my dad were gone by the time I Made it past my door. I didn’t particularly care to see them, their presence would have kept me hidden a minute more.

I sprinted from the house to show my mother I was making an effort to catch the bus. Bookbag bouncing off small shoulder blades. Until I was hidden from my mother watchful eye. Then I walked.

I have never been in a rush to go anywhere… It was my most exasperating personality trait. 

My Cardinal Sin. The nail on my Cross.

Walking alone trying to get to a bus I didn’t want to ride, to take me to a place I didn’t want to go. If the bus was still there, waiting for me. the driver would ask: “the milk was hot again Filipa?” I didn’t know what he meant back then. I didn’t drink milk.

I stared at him wishing I had something funny or clever to say. I never did.

If I was really late, I would miss the bus. Catch the next one. I still don’t know what the big fuss was about. I would be late to school but I could sleep in and the second bus would be almost empty. I was a good student. I had good grades.

I never understood people’s morning rush…What can possibly be more important than enjoying the sweet melody of your own mind? Fresh full of dreams, lucid and visible but still ethereal.

I'd like to still be me when I wake up.

That moment when part of you is awake, your senses flicking on one by one. There is life outside of your slumber but you’re still cocooned, with eyes closed, staring at inside. It is my favorite part of the day.

I wanted the chance to be me when I woke up…

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*The following advice is intended for mature audiences. The purpose of this newsletter is to inform and entertain. Follow advice at your own risk.

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