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Trumpet fanfare for 2-years-old {i}

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Atlas woke and still the stars were wide, wild and awake, the sky outside still brushed in lavender hush, orange peels, the last bit of raindrops chased the night away; and the gentle breathing of his sister filled the room like a lullaby that never stopped singing. Frida, forever faithful, gave a soft grunt in her dreams, one paw twitching with some imagined chase.

He lay still, staring at the ceiling that glowed faintly with the soft shimmer of their glow-in-the-dark stars; carefully placed by their papi months ago, with help from Aurora’s paint-smudged fingers and a very serious plan. There, constellations lived just above his bed, papi and maman taught them, said their names, learnt them all, and he whispered into the night those names back. Waiting for replies, perhaps.

Their maman was already up. He could hear the quiet clinking of cups and the soft thrum of her favorite old record spinning, following the right rhythm. A song she said made her heart to swell good.

The house was waking up, and everything smelled like the kind that plays in the back of your mind when you remember being truly happy; homemade pastry, chocolate, memories.

Maman was making a cake. Because today they were to be 2 years old.

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Atlas rose carefully, so as not to wake his sister. Climbed the walls that protected them from falling off their beds. But, bless their parents' hearts, they were nothing for the spy he was, and landed on the floor, unharmed. He padded through the hallway still wrapped in sleep. The house indeed grew fuller, and the shadows stretched out, started growing no more.

Until they were nothing, darkness became absolute nothing.

For his maman was in the kitchen. Making them a birthday cake.

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