Woken up before ready

Woken up before ready to wake. Woken up by small voices, then a Harley rumbling by outside. Step downstairs, into the morning routine, Heart to Heart and Silk. News is horror stories of the bridge collapsed over the Mississippi River. Reactions here and abroad to Barack Obama's "tough talk," meaning air strike talk, regarding terrorists hiding out in Pakistan. I don't believe Obama's really likely to approve bombing, but any candidate with a realistic shot at being the next president has to prove himself to be "tough enough" for macho-wacko middle America. Pacifists are pussies. August 4, 2007: if he hadn't drowned so young, Shelley would be 215 today. And atheists have no morals. The good people of the U.S. of A. love their morals. Through the south windows, see the morning sky's already bright and even the leaves on the maple trees look lazy from the humidity, under the broad thumb of sunlight. Vaughn is after me to "play something," to "stop typing on [my] computer." I'm checking out typographica.org's favorite fonts of 2006, but Vaughn's getting restless and I don't want to ignore her anymore, so I wander into the living room. A wasp shadow bounces against the curtain as the wasp bounces against the window outside. I sit down with Vaughn and my mug of black tea, finally. We take out the United States puzzle from a shelf in the TV cabinet. Is it yesterday or today? She places Texas with its cowboy hat and boots and yellow star. I ask her for the state with an eagle on it and she correctly hands me Minnesota. KC comes in from outside where she was watering the plants. I get up and bring my empty mug to the kitchen sink. Vaughn announces that mommy has brought in strawberries from the front yard. A fresh, hose-rinsed snack for Vaughn. KC goes upstairs and I sit back down to our puzzle. Before long we have it completed, except for Pennsylvania. "Where in the world can Pennsylvania be?" I ask. And Vaughn sings the question over and over, drawing out "beeeeee," as we wander from room to room, wandering through the same three-and-a-half rooms. We look under the furniture and we look on top of everything, searching low, searching high. Vaughn asks if maybe the Pennsylvania piece walked outside over night. "I don't think so," I say. A new wasp shadow bounces against the curtain in the living room. Finally I suppose maybe the piece did leave in search of the real Pennsylvania, where it would set itself down, like a flat little jar. Vaughn picks up the football from the wicker basket near the door, says "Let's play that game where you say 'It's my ball, it's my ball,' and you try to get it from me." I crouch like a linebacker with poor technique and snarl at her all silly like. "I'm going to hold the ball like Tiki Barber," she says, "like you taught me." But we won't completely forget the puzzle piece any time soon. We'll look for it again later. And we'll look for it today, which was tomorrow. And we'll look for it tomorrow. And many tomorrows more.