Constantly reoccurring

Constantly reoccurring sound of cars surging by outside. Hounding sound of morning breaking sleep, not unlike the cracks of sunlight through the vinyl mini-blinds, sound and light breaking sleep open. Half-reluctantly I kick the sheets off, stand up, and half-stumble to the toilet bowl, lift the seat, aim, and shut eyes for not a long while. Step downstairs, into the morning routine. Heart to Heart and Silk, read the headlines—news helicopters crash while following a car chase in Arizona, a suicide bomber is sought in Pakistan, a dubiously convicted man is executed (twenty-seven years later) in Alabama. KC upstairs getting Dash to sleep, Vaughn insists on playing. I pour hot water for tea, let it steep, sit down with Vaughn to play Candy Land. She asks me, "Which one do you want to be: blue or red?" "I'll be blue," I say. "I go first," she says, which is true, the rules clearly state the youngest player starts. She gets sad when I land on the Rainbow Trail shortcut. "I never get to take the Rainbow Trail," she whimpers. I remind her that she's landed on Gumdrop Pass many times, but she insists she "never gets to land on the shortcuts anymore." "I want to win," she says. And she will, as she always does when we play, except for a couple of times when she was happy not to win, preferring instead to hang out around Peanut Acres or Lollipop Woods. Game over, back sore from sitting on the floor, tell Vaughn I need a break, let me finish my tea. But she wants to play something else. Sitting on the sofa in the living room back to the east-side of the house, I see all the way across our main floor, to the back room, Peterson's Field Guide to Eastern Birds facing out on one of my bookshelves. I point to it and ask Vaughn if she remember the three birds on the front cover. Excited she runs over, grabs the book and brings it over to me. "Read all the names of all the birds," she says. I ask her to first identify the ones on the cover. She knows the Cardinal, that's a given, doesn't remember the ones we learned last time—the Rose-Breasted Grosbeak and the Evening Grosbeak. When we get to the Great Auk she remember this is the one that "has extinct." And when we get to the Carolina Parakeet and the Passenger Pigeon which appear on consecutive spreads (I typed "spears" at first), she asks if they're the only ones that have extinct—for each one she says "has extinct," I tell her "is extinct, is extinct," she says "ok, is extinct," but then goes back to "has extinct" next time she says it—I tell her they're the only ones in this book, but there are other birds that are no more. "Which ones?" she asks, and I pause a moment before at least one comes to my still sleepy mind, "the Dodo bird," I say. KC comes downstairs, dressed for the day, tells Vaughn it's time for her to do the same. They'll be heading downtown for the Village Fair Days. I'll be staying home with Dash who sorely needs his nap. Vaughn rushes around to get ready. I bring my empty mug to the sink.