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Flying
Jessica Frazier

          A screaming child is pounding her feet on the floor, angry at everyone for the moment. Two rooms down Reba McEntire belts out, "Because of you, I never stray too far from the sidewalk."

          "Stop,"

          "No,"

          "Mine." The two younger sisters fight over the favorite toy of the moment, screeching and slapping.

          Water dripping in the kitchen sink, "ping, ping, ping, ping, ping," echoes into my ear drum. Not even five lines, and my husband's car is driving into the driveway, next is the thump, thump, thumping of his heavy boots stomping the mud onto the porch.

          Then for a brief second there is nothing, I type out a few more lines.

          The fan blows a soft breeze onto the back of my neck, making a slight buzzing sound.

          "It's my turn"

          "But, it's my bike"

          "I want to ride"

          "No, mine" The silence is broken by yet another fight, this time a tricycle.

          My husband runs over the details of his day while my youngest sits in my lap sucking her thumb, humming.

          Some male country singer is now on the radio singing an easy going song about a country road. Somewhere in the background I can hear the buzzing sound of the hummingbird's wings as he eats from the feeder on my porch.

          The helicopter flies over my house, maybe on the way to the fire out in Magnolia. This morning the smoke is thicker here, sticking to my lungs.

          The wind blowing through the house rattles the papers on my desk, trying its hardest to send one flying.