j a k e
I'm pretty clumsy in the mornings, considering I always find myself staggering out of bed still half-asleep, so it's not that big of a surprise that I manage to trip over something in my wake.
The thing that shocks me is what.
It's seven in the morning when the retched item gets caught under my foot and sends me tumbling to the ground. Cursing, I just manage to use my hands to catch me before breaking my nose on the floor. I whip around, ready to yell at whatever made me trip, even though it was probably an object, but my breath caught in my throat when I saw exactly what it was.
I debate stuffing it back underneath my bed, but tell myself to take a deep breath and stop. I can't run away from this again. I reach a hand out, taking the photo album in my hand, turning it over.
Just a couple months ago I was breaking down over it.
This photo album has held so much pain in it. I made it out of pain- out of the pain of not having the life I wanted so badly. Every time I opened it and found myself staring at the happy image of my mother, it was like getting stabbed in the gut over and over again. Now, however, as I open the album slowly and pull out the image of my mother holding me on Christmas while I was opening a gift, it only brings back a weird sensation I'm not used to when thinking about my family.
Happiness.
The joy I felt that day rushes back to me in a instantaneous wave, as if it were waiting for so long for me to finally feel it. I glance at the next photo, the one of us hugging, and actually find myself smiling again.
I'm too caught up in the photo's to hear my door open. "Jake, did you fall again? I swear to... Jake?"
I turn to George offering him a small smile as I look down at the photo in my hands. I'm still caught up on my mother's smile in it.
George slowly walks into the room, sitting down beside me and the now scattered photos. I lay the photo down in front of us, saying quietly, "You know, the gift was a toy train."
He smiles, eyes not leaving the photo.
"I had this thing for toy trains when I was little," I continue. "Whenever we hate to wait for a giant train to pass, my dad would always get really mad, but I'd always tell him to stop offending the train."
George chuckles. "Offending the train?"
"I sincerely thought train's had feelings," I laugh. "But, c'mon. I was six. It was pretty adorable back then."
"Whatever you say."
"I was a cute baby, George, okay? I was. Just trust me."
I reach for the photo again, holding it in my hands before exhaling and putting it back in its slot. I slide the pad of my thumb over the plastic covering the one of my mom and I hugging, allowing myself a small, reminiscent smile.
And then, without one tear shed, I close the album.
George studies me for a moment before he says, "You should get dressed."
I look down and notice I'm still only in sweats. I nod, putting the album back underneath my bed and using my bed as support as I stand up.
"What're you thinking of doing today?" George asks me as I pull on a shirt.
I think about it as I get some socks to put on. "I think I'll go on a jog with Grayson. I haven't been on one for a while."
George smiles at me. "I think that'll be good for you."
