I shuffled out of my bedroom, fumbling with the belt of my fluffy robe and bumping my shoulder into the door jamb. “Cof-fee, cof-fee, cof-fee,” my jarred brain throbbed. I navigated the dark loft, but not as adeptly as a blind lady in her own home; I almost stumbled over the bodies. Wait…bodies? Naked bodies! Many, many naked bodies. The shadowy silhouettes aggravated my eyes to a blinking state of awakened disbelief. There were mostly girls, but yes, a couple of guys, too. My dilated pupils canvassed the bare legs, arms, chests, and breasts and came to rest upon the mixed pile of boys’ and girls’ clothes. The limp pieces huddled together and lay at a distance, as if afraid to sneak any closer to the bodies from which they’d been so haphazardly discarded.
I searched for my daughter. Her body was not among those on the floor, but I knew instinctively that this mess was her doing. I shook my head. Then lifted it.
“There is no shame here,” I told myself. “This is only natural for a girl her age.
Smiling at the memory, I thought of the hours I had spent undertaking similar endeavors. I remembered the tiny snaps and pin head-sized buttons. I would have thought Velcro would be a great improvement, but apparently one is still prone to just give up on the whole onerous exercise.
The programmable coffee maker had done its work, and a bold roasted aroma abruptly reminded me of where I was headed before being hijacked by the scene at hand. I turned to descend the stairs. “She does need to be better about putting her things up,” I muttered under my breath. “Remember to tell her that when she wakes up.”
My daughter is 10 years old. She still plays with Barbies. She knows to cover her ears if I step on one of those pointy plastic hands.