When I'm five

I'm at the table for coffee time. I'm with my parents and the old people. 

I'm always with the old people. They are my dad's aunt and uncle. But, these old people are like grandparents to me. They raised my dad from age 16 after he came to the New Country from the Old Country. His aunt taught him English.

I love my great aunt for that. She is nice. She is lovely.

I'm five. The adults at the table are dunking their rusks into their Sanka, which has been laced with a sugar cube or two. I can still hear the clank clank of the spoon sliding against the side of the coffee cup (always a cup on a saucer) as they would stir in the sugar. Rarely cream.

I'm five. Life is good. I am an only child so far. My brother would be born the next year. I get all the attention from my parents and the old people who we are with. A lot. I get all the attention from people at church.

I have a farm with a swing set. I like to swing. Alone.  I fly high into the air, but always come back down. Only to fly again.

I am five and I don't know what's coming soon. 

I don't know that my bedroom will change from the one that I've always known. The one with the yellow sweet peas on the walls, my white four poster bed, and where my brother's crib is on the opposite wall as mine. 

The bedroom where the house is so old that corn cobs were used as insulation. 

This would be the reason my mom, in the coming years, after the tornado came through my life and I was moved out of my farm, 
then moved back, 
and then back and forth...

this would be the reason my mom buys fancy fire detectors for our ceilings, so that she can feel like I'm safe. 

Because she is not with me.

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Blessings to you!

Thanks for joining me for Five Minute Friday. Today, I took the prompt "five" into mini memoir mode. I'm linking up with other courageous writers over at Kate Motaung's blog. Come on over and see what other writers have written for this week's prompt!

Anne