Focus

Father was a quiet man.  A particular man.  You could nearly call him fussy.  Even on Saturdays, he wore a white button down shirt with a blue tie.  Even on Saturdays, he wore a hat. 

Every morning at five o’clock, he would take the New York Times from our front porch and fan out the sections before him on the antique table dominating our kitchen.  “You have to know what’s going on in your world,” he would say.    

My mother would rise and measure coffee into the silver basket of the percolator, taking care not to spill a single grind into the pot.  Father would get the first cup of the day.

Father would read the sports.

My mother would fry the bacon to a perfect crisp and lay it to drain, as instructed, in neat north-south rows.

Father would read the business section.

My mother would crack eight eggs into the pan.

Father would read the world news.  State.  Local. 

My mother would make toast and place Father’s breakfast before him.

Like a scientist focusing closer…closer…closer in on his subject, my father dissected the newspaper. 

My mother, sister and I were to sit in silence at breakfast as Father read.  Occasionally, he would grunt and slide an article across the table towards my mother which she would dutifully snip out, neatly penning the date at the top in red ink.

The day my mother disappeared, my sister made the coffee and set a cup before Father.  My sister fried eggs and bacon.  I fed bread to the toaster.

Father grunted and slid a section of the paper across the table to where my mother ought to have been sitting.  My sister sniffled; stifled a sob. 

“Hey, now,” Father frowned and looked up.  “What’s with all the fireworks?”

“It’s nothing, Father,” she said.

He looked at the empty chair.  “Where’s your mother?”

“Mamma’s gone Father.”  My sister rose and retrieved the scissors from the kitchen.  “Shall I cut out that article for you?”

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.