A little boy will lie impatiently waiting for his celebration to take flight, as tomorrow’s day still sleeps and the crows lie buttoned up inside their puffed wings, not yet ready to sing their song.
It’ll still be dark I suppose when he launches his shaking body onto our bed with no warning. We’ll roll over and in a petulant manner argue with the clock and the birth of dawn questioning their honesty. I’ll sleep walk to the wardrobe where I’ve hidden the items wrapped in happy colours, and curse Friday’s denial of a few more winks.
Little pieces of paper will fly in a multitude of directions as the source of extreme happiness is quickly revealed. Eyes like saucers, deft finger work and a half open mouth drown out my ability to hide quietly under crumpled sheets, and finish the dream in my head I’m sure I’d begun minutes earlier.
Celebratory squeals of delight do their best to entice me to the coffee machine. Instruction booklets are purposefully shoved into our faces and our brains are pushed into gear as the demands for assistance to “Get it to work” envelope the air.
Pictured paper with ripped edges line the floor, sticky tape now randomly attached to armchairs and tiles lie in disarray, cardboard with heartfelt well wishes- once neatly aligned, are lost in the turmoil and flippantly discarded in favour of i-devices.
The fridge baby sits the chocolate delights that will fill his belly, and feed his smile as he officially claims the Day as his, Saint Xavier Day. With pride, he will measure and compare the size of his now apparently huge feet with his mothers, brothers and fathers, claiming victory despite reality.
The night will fall on his pristine soul, we’ll kiss goodnight his ragamuffin head, he’ll sleep like a King, in a Kings bed, with King friends and King dreams and his feet will be bigger tomorrow.
Today he rips coloured paper and laughs through the chocolate cake filled cracks in his teeth.
Tomorrow, he’ll be cursing the clock, and hiding presents in his wardrobe.
Happy Birthday Xavier