Cereal Time

Dedicated totally and completely to Mr. Stephenson and his son Owen, thanks guys, for the inspiration.
Thanks a ton to my editor-and-chief Emily A.

Just a little story for the Paper Clip.

Staring up at the cabinets, the boy wondered how far his outstretched hand would have to grow to open them. Even on his tip-toes, his fingers still reached only the bottom of the cupboards. His face twisted into a scowl he ran over to the round kitchen table and pulled a chair over to the counter. It scrapped the floor as it went. Climbing atop the wooden chair the boy stretched his hands above his head and felt the smooth lacquered cabinetry beneath his small fingers. As he opened it up the boy’s eyes rested upon the many brightly colored boxes of cereal: Kellogg, Rice Krispies, Fruit Loops, and Cocoa Puffs. Finally, the boy plucked the yellow box of Cheerios from the shelf; he leaned back and closed the door, almost losing his footing. Triumphantly he jumped down from the chair and ran into the living room, holding the box in his hand; his father was sitting in a straight-backed chair hunched over a pile of papers.

“Dad!” The boy whined, holding up the box. The man continued to stare at the paper and twiddled the red pen between his fingers, occasionally marking on the paper. Reaching up, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, sighed, and wrote a scrawled letter grade on the back of the paper. That particular student received a B+.

“Dad.” The boy said, more calmly this time. The man turned and looked at his son with a surprised look on his face, as if he hadn’t noticed the boy before. The boy held up the box of Cheerios and shook it, grinning. “It’s time for cereal!”

“Ah, that’s right, how could I forget?” The man stood up and walked with his son into the kitchen and over to the same cabinet from which the boy had painstakingly retrieved the food. He pulled down two bowls and headed for the fridge, opening it and pulling the milk from the door. He closed it with his foot and set the ingredients on the table. The boy opened the box with his fingers and shook out its contents, distributing the food as evenly as possible. The father uncapped the milk and poured just enough into the bowls to submerge the little O’s.

“Spoons!” The boy leapt from his chair, nearly knocking it over and ran to the counter, pulling open the silverware drawer and grabbing two spoons. Teaspoons. Perfect for eating cereal. The boy sat down at the table and handed his dad the spoon before digging into his not-quite-midnight snack. Turning to his father, he smiled happily and gulped down the rest of his food. Quietly, they finished their cereal, an unspoken agreement. It wasn’t time for talking; they’d done that enough over dinner, over math problems, over television shows. It was quiet time. It was something that never changed, unlike the number of hours his father worked, the time his mother dropped him off for school in the morning, or the amount of time he spent listening to old CD’s. Cereal time came every night, without fail.

He finished his food, put the bowl in the sink and put the milk away, back in the door so they could find it again for breakfast the next morning. He walked over to his father, yawning as he went, and reached his arms up once again, wrapping them around his father’s giant form.

“Thanks Dad.” He whispered, and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night.”

“Good night,” his father echoed, shooing the boy out of the room. He listened until the soft pads of his footsteps disappeared before lifting himself from the chair once again. Picking up the box of cereal he closed it so it wouldn’t go stale and put it away. He set his own spoon and bowl in the sink on top of his son’s, stacking them neatly. Turning away from the sink, he glanced up and saw his wife standing in the doorway.

“He’s upstairs.” He said, gesturing nowhere in particular.

“It’s too late for him to be up and eating.”

“Hasn’t bothered him before. Besides, it’s tradition.” The man shrugged and watched the woman walk away, listened to her feet collide with the stairs, doors close and open, water turning on and off. Walking out of the kitchen he dimmed the light switch and sat down at his stack of papers. The television was playing a mute cartoon of some old children’s show he didn’t know the name of. The red pen was right where he had left it, sitting uncapped on the table. He tapped his foot against the chair and adjusted his glasses, trying to read the assignment in front of him. Maybe he would finish grading them tomorrow.