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Precocious

Precocious



Bill Rayburn

Copyright 2012 by

Bill Rayburn

Smashwords Edition



Sometimes I get up early in the morning and sit in the big front window, waiting for my dad to come back from his run. When it’s foggy, I have to look really hard to see him. First his head, then his shoulders and finally all of him come out of the fog. I can see him breathing hard, his breath like a dragon.

I stand at the front door as he comes in holding the paper. His sweatshirt has a huge stain of his sweat like a big tongue, from his neck to his belly. Rrrriiippp, as he strips the rubber band off the paper and unfolds it. He smiles at me and leans over and kisses me on the head.

I follow him into the kitchen. I eat my cereal while he reads the sports page. When he’s done, he hands it to me. We do this every morning.

I am only 10 years old, but I see and hear and know things that adults don’t think I do. The call me precocious, but I don’t know what that means. I do know they usually wink and smile when they say it, so it must be good.

My dad wears jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt and a baseball hat to work. My friend’s dads all drive nice cars and wear suits and ties. I see them get dropped off at school as I ride my bike up to the school yard every morning. Their dads don’t look happy. My dad kisses me and my mom every morning when he goes to work. He builds houses and drives a jeep.

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