The soft little footsteps of the girls can be heard if you listen closely.

They race down the stairs, their white nightgowns embellished with lambs and ducks and rabbits flowing behind them. Their feet are cold against the polished wood, so they pull on their socks. Hands reach for the cereal box, fingers spread out like fans. Even on tiptoe, the fingers hardly brush the box. Footsteps can be heard down the hall, and up comes Mom, woken by the girls’ giggles in the early hours of the morning, not too long ago. Sleepily rubbing an eye, she reaches for the cereal, and hands it to the girls, pouring some into two separate green bowls. The girls grab some spoons, dipping them into the pieces, all yellow and blue and pink. Mom opens the fridge, a cold wind escaping through it, chilling the girls’ skin. Milk has now been poured, cold and white and sweet. The girls take their bowls over to the couch, and as the taste of marshmallow starts to soak into their tongues, the T.V. flickers on, crackling with static. The remote, resting in Mom’s hands, is soon placed on the coffee table, the destination of their favorite channel finally reached. The girls lean forward, enveloped in their favorite show, as Mom leans back and lets out a sigh. The girls don’t know how meaningful these Saturday mornings are to her. They are everything to her, and now have a very important significance, now that their Father can no longer share it with them.

She misses him. They all do.