Coming Untucked

Each morning is a scurry of activity, more so since the school bus can no longer make it down and up our ice coated lane and we have to drive to school ourselves. Since moving here the girls have been entrusted with new responsibilities including making their beds. No matter how much time I allot in the mornings for getting ready, or how instant the breakfast, it’s inevitably a mad dash to get out the door on time. Regardless, the girls are not permitted to leave their beds unmade. Once we’ve assembled our fifteen layers of sweaters, coats, gloves, hats, backpacks, boots, etc., skated our way to the frozen car and either scraped or defrosted the windshield, we’re on our merry way to school. Quick kisses and they’re off. I come back to the warm house, heat up the coffee and clear away any remaining dishes, crumbs, and rings of maple syrup. The morning sun (on the days when it deigns to appear) slants in the windows and all is silent as a chapel. I walk toward their rooms, picking up orphaned socks and books left on the dining room table. And every time, as I enter their rooms, I am struck by the sight of their beds, covers drawn up but melting over the sides like the icing on my never photogenic cakes. I resist the urge to tuck and smooth, savoring instead the weak knee effect rendered every time by the sight of such perfect imperfection.