That Particular Morning
That particular morning, Malcolm Reed – age ten, did not intend to have his philosophy of life presented to him like a cake on a platter – maybe not exactly what you ordered, but impossible to ignore none the less. Part one of four. Prologue.
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That particular morning – it being late summer – Malcolm Reed, age ten – almost eleven, and enjoying the effects of good weather and sunlight, was thinking of nothing but lying under the wisteria bush located in the side yard of his parents' house.
Theoretically he was reading 'Alice in Wonderland' by Lewis Carrol – an old paper, hardback book, that had no pictures, but then he hadn't needed to read books with pictures since he was seven. (That year he learned that drawing your own pictures in a paper book to illustrate the story was not 'a good idea'. Thankfully, it was his Mum who discovered his artwork and not his father . . .)
The lawn was just beginning to show the effects of the summer and had slightly begun to dry out; Malcom was lying on his stomach, resting on his elbows, as he read. Later, he realized that he must have brushed up against the wisteria bush, because suddenly there were aphids dropped on top of the page he was reading.
Bright green creatures (he wasn't sure if they were insects, properly speaking), but Malcolm thought that where there were aphids, there were probably ants – having read before a book about ants in a sense 'farming' aphids for their nectar. He watched them waving their tiny legs around then blew the creatures off the book figuring that squashed 'bugs' did not belong in among the pages of a paper book.
'Mum probably needed to know that her wisteria bush had ants and aphids', the boy wasn't sure if the violet flowers were affected by the infestation, but Mum was very particular about her garden and would even dig weeds up by hand rather than subject her plants to chemical means of controlling unwanted vegetation. He stood up after carefully cleaning the book, and headed around the corner of the house, to go in the front door.
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As he entered the house, looking at but not really noticing the print of a naval battle that his father had 'installed in pride of place' above the mantle of their fireplace, Malcolm heard the sound of his mother singing in the kitchen which was located around the back of the main heating structure of their dwelling.
(Mum would sing whilst she was 'doing housework' – although there was that time she was waxing the wooden floors by hand and she was so angry that there was no question of her singing; Malcolm had watched her brisk motions scrubbing at the grain of the surface and was reminded of the time that Maddie had gotten infected with that alien skin disease, and not only had she been roughly washed by Mum, but he'd been washed too – and embarrassingly examined by his Mum to make sure 'that he wasn't damaged', like he was some kind of 'goods'.)
So when he heard his Mum singing, it meant that she was in a good mood and you didn't have to guess . . . he began listening to the words. The boy did not know some of the words – 'que sera, sera' – not English – maybe a Romance language like Latin . . . while most of the song was in English, 'what will be, will be' seemed to be the refrain. (And thinking about it, that was most likely what 'que sera, sera' meant.)
Malcolm frowned.
The idea that you had to accept what happened without complaint, without reflection, that you could not change your future to suit your goals . . . You may not be happy about life, but you had to keep fighting . . .
Malcolm decided not to mention to his Mum whilst she was singing in the kitchen; knowing her, if he told her about the aphids, she might have wanted to burn his book and dig up the wisteria bush. Best 'let sleeping dogs lie'.
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