Gia Raquel

Upon the idea of the future, far beyond graduation and college, I feel my chest falling into itself.  My heart grows heavy, but not with sadness. It flourishes with joy, with relief, that I have the ability to make this possible one day. It’s a cry of hope that there is more to my life than what is right now. What more could I ask for?

This is for the future, to whoever fears it, may it be grand and beautiful.

It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon; the skies are dark and alive with thrumming currents. She feels her husband’s protective arm wrapped around her stomach, with a baby bump pushing against it. As an instinct, she wakes up and holds that arm as assurance that he is next to her. He pulls her tight and brushes his nose against her neck, waiting for her reaction. As he expected, a burst of laughter leaves her mouth. She turns over to him, but he quickly catches her off guard with a kiss. Regardless of so many years spent together, she still becomes easily embarrassed by her morning breath. But her husband pays little mind to such a minor detail. Instead, he pulls her close against his chest and greets her as he always has since he told her those little words: three squeezes in her hand. I love you. And she replies with four squeezes back. I love you too.

She looks at him with the same adoration she did when she first saw him. But that is soon interrupted by the tiny voice of their little boy giggling at the sight of his parents sharing ‘cooties’. Her husband beckons him in with a broad smile and places him in between the two. The little boy expresses his fear of the rain, for he is a worrier just like his mother. But his father tucks him under the covers and pulls both his son and wife close to him, as if to silently promise he will always keep them safe. The three lie the bed until they all hear a stomach grumble, catching the boy’s attention. He puts his hand on his mommy’s stomach, curious by the bump and by the fact that he won’t be alone much longer.

They finally get out of bed, pushing against the want to stay in just a little bit longer. The husband dresses for work while she goes to the kitchen to make breakfast. As much as they want to enjoy the rest of the morning, her husband never likes to be late, especially to work. Her tardiness and his punctuality tend to balance out perfectly, making them an efficient couple.

Breakfast flies by, as does the husband, but he doesn’t leave before kissing his wife and son goodbye. In the meanwhile, she decides it’s a good day to paint with her son. She had just published her third book of poetry, gaining popularity each month and creating a reality of a writing career.

The mother and son could hear thunder and cars honking in the bustling Brooklyn streets outside of their brownstone. Upon finishing their meal and morning cartoons, she picks up her boy and walks into her small studio. Her desk sits in front of the tall windows with a view of the murky sky and lively streets. It is a mess of notebooks, papers, pens, pencils, and her laptop balanced on top of it all.

With the help of her son, she rolls out and cuts a large sheet of paper and takes out acrylic paints as well. She puts on swing music so as to drown out the rain and her son’s fear. Much to her delight, he enjoys the music and soon forgets about the storm brewing outside the window.

Much of the day is spent with gleeful laughter and messy paint blotches upon their skin. The little boy has a good portion of himself covered in paint, along with his mother. But frankly, that is part of the fun. Eventually, the two grow tired of painting and decide to clean up. Afterward, they observe their work with prideful expressions and drowsy eyes.

Yet somehow, the little boy still has some energy to finish his day strong. He sits by his little piano and asks for his mother’s assistance. Of course, she obliges without much convincing. But it isn’t long until she succumbs to her exhaustion. With her son in her arms, she rests on the couch and puts on a Disney movie to settle him.

In what felt like minutes, her husband walks through the door with a matching pair of tired but happy eyes. Greeting her with a light peck on the lips, he sees her and immediately scoops the boy in his arms, letting her sleep for just a little while.

Her eyes flutter open in reaction to her son incessantly poking her cheek. A sense of panic shoots through her spine before she is reminded that her husband is home as well. She looks around in her groggy state, confused by how much time has passed. Her son takes her hand and pulls her into the kitchen where her husband has prepared some soup for dinner. As she attempts to escape her half-asleep state, their son avidly talks about his day to his father. By then, the storm has passed and the sky is clear of any clouds that were present a mere few hours before.

When it’s time to go to sleep, the parents tell their son the next part of a continuous fairytale. Much to their surprise, he falls asleep with less of an argument than usual. More often than not, he requests at least three stories in order to properly begin his dreaming.

The couple lay in their bed, pressed up against each other, enjoying the silent company. He kisses her head as she lightly drags her fingertips against his back. She smiles against his chest, ready to say goodnight.