Into the Time Machine And Back Out Again

I feel less miserable than I did on Saturday. Coming off of a cold, I'm tired and my nose and head are filled with snot. It's late, and I probably shouldn't of had those two big glasses of gin and tonic.

Hungry, I shuffle into the kitchen and open the cupboard. The box of Booberry catches my attention and I pour myself a handful of chemical blueberry and marshmallow goodness. As I try to breath through the snot in my nose, the smell of the cereal mixes with the fog in my head. For a moment, I'm four years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor in my Sylvester the Cat pajamas watching the 19-inch television as the Scooby-Doo theme begins to play and the bats from the haunted house fill the colored screen.

For those few moments, I'm somewhere I haven't been in a long time. Somewhere that existed before the brutality of adulthood pushed its ugliness into the life of my brother and me. Me and him got along. Mom and dad fought, but not often. There wasn't much to be afraid of, other than not having our room clean enough to watch Saturday cartoons. Somewhere before we knew better or cared to know better - where you were more worried about your peter getting caught in the zipper or your mom hearing you say "bastard".

For those few moments, I felt innocent and naive and completely happy. As I snapped out of it, I was thankful I have the girl to share my Scooby-Doo addiction with and appreciation for horrible cereals with. And I guess to a degree, as I come to, I hoped that the innocence I remember stays with her for a long, long time. There's few thing more beautiful than her singing the Scooby-Doo theme song or Happy Birthday or saying "I want my daddy" in the middle of the night.

Nothing.