Pieces of Midnight | How To Make Memories
We've got us a history with late night cop shows and midnight snacks, my little sister and me. It's those nights in the kitchen in orange-yellow light from old lights, when the parents' bedroom is dark and we sneak up the stairs to raid the cupboards, concealing giggles until we burst 'cause this is so risky it's funny.
There's been brownies in mugs with a dollop of ice cream a little too often to be good for the waistline and a good night's sleep.
But then we grew up a little bit and she moved out, and the late nights and the cop shows had to wait in line, 'cause when you crawl in bed with your sister with a laptop and a good show and some snack sneaked through midnight, you just really can't do it without her. It's just not really the same.
They waited, just quietly, though. Fewer and far between and better for the waistline and sleep, maybe, but they waited still, not forgotten. Like how you know you can sleep better when the sister that's been your sidekick, your hero, your best person, is in the bed across from yours, you just know special moments won't be forgotten.
Last night, we both saw it, the pasta they were eating in the cop show, and it was like this simultaneous wish sighed in both of us. Out loud.
So we crept upstairs and revisited the orange-yellow lit kitchen, the dangerous business of sneaking about and not waking parents while you're being mischievous and really just a little bit naughty.
No, it was really more like Midnight and not 3:41 like the stove clock says, but it might as well have been for all the sleep we got that night. It was really like a rescue mission, just her and me. Her cooking good pasta and me capturing art, kind of like this one long moment with a lot "shh--shh"'s whispered and purpose and good things made.
Just a few pieces of midnight, like a few pieces of hope set into place.