Every morning, my mom swishes her slippers across the floor, wearing the flannel bathrobe that is half of a matching set, given to her and my father as a wedding gift. Today marks its 25th year of use. The sleeves are soft. They wrap up her petite figure as she pours her first of too many cups of coffee. Her cropped, wayward bedhead is endearing, as is her sleepy voice. Her soul is as soft as her outward morning appearance.
My dad comes down for his routine Raisin Bran much more composed, his hair slicked sideways like Gene Kelly, the lines of the comb still visible in his freshly-showered barbershop crew cut. He’s been sporting that look, and the same one-dimpled smile, since the day of his second-grade school picture. After saying his good mornings and kissing his wife on the top of her head, he rustles the Richmond Times a bit and settles with his cereal for a precious minute of peace before the day begins. He cleans up well, but don’t be fooled — the dimples speak more to his happy old-man personality than any nice suit ever could.
I can say with utter confidence this is how their morning will go today, tomorrow and the next day because it has been going on as such for as long as I can remember. Perhaps my recounting is blurred with overly fond nostalgia — my mother would remind me some mornings are more chaotic than this pleasant recollection implies.
But this is how my brain recalls mornings with my parents. If this is the imagery I conjure after 19 years of breakfasts with these people, it must be at least decently accurate. This account reflects the nature of my parents, and therefore is the one I prefer to sketch in memory.
Why do I love these people? It’s a question whose many answers never seem complete. I can mention arbitrary qualities such as their stability, their dedication, their accountability and willing presence — but these ideas are just that, arbitrary. Everyone sees this in the people they admire. Words seem empty compared to the tangible experience of living with their ways and trying them on for myself.
The sum of these arbitrary characteristics is an essence that only manifests itself in precious, maybe mundane mannerisms. I see my mother’s warmth and my father’s gentility in the way she pours her coffee and the way he folds his newspaper. These are the tasks I have watched them perform every day and that I have come to expect. Their predictability creates a feeling of comfort and routine, safety and sameness.
So again, why do I love the people who make my house my home? I think you need to spend a morning in my house to feel to truly understand the reason I love them. The essence of the routine is what makes home comfortable and welcoming. I have come to associate my family with things that seem small and unimportant, yet lovely nonetheless. Home is a hub for the ordinary more often than the extraordinary, but frankly, I am all right with that. It provides me with the opportunity to absorb the details that flesh out my kin enough for me to love them on a level other than any other entity. Familial love is not meant to be captivating, rather, it is soft, simple, calm and happy.
Kate’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at k.colver@cavalierdaily.com.
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