Writing Exercise #1: Sketch of Parent

"Whoo hee; whoo hee." Lips pursed, Momma sings, quietly under her breath. Standing between the antique bureau and the oversized hamper my dad made last Christmas, Mom packs for their Alaskan cruise. Though I've wondered about this tendency and the song, I now know it's the rhythm of her life--she has no distinct melody or pitch in mind; in fact, she does this unconsciously. Today, our work harmonizes with this song, me folding bleached undershirts, she combing through the bureau's bottom drawer for Dad's pasleyed sweater and her flannel pajama bottoms.
"Momma?"
"Whoo hee," breathes out, "Um hmm?" she turns, eyes refocusing, lips transitioning from whistle to smile.
"How many of these will Daddy need?" I hold up the shirts my brother-in-law refers to as "wife beaters," much to my dad's amusement.
"1, 2, 3, 4" she mouths the numbers, rolls her eyes, and cocks the right hip: "14."
In my head I think, "14? They'll only be gone seven days," but then I know my dad's idiosyncrat need to bathe twice a day. At this point, as always, I start a well-memorized song,
"If the skies above you are grey,"
"You are feeling so blue-ooh-ooh." Mom joins as always, though we soon stop because of laughter. We've been switched to harmony without anyone on lead. Establishing our rhythm, our place, gliding from one hymn to the next, me on alto, her one soprano, we pack our way through an afternoon.
"Babe? Go get that..." Nouns escape my mother, almost like the North Carolina mist hangs in the woods for a short time but flees the noon. I've learned to fill in the blanks, guessing at possible alternatives. Such a habit annoys most others, yet for us, it's never an interruption but a necessity.
"The overnight bag?" I suggest as Mom points and shapes the object with her hands.
"Yes; thanks."
Early the next morning, the vacation-routine begins. Daddy arises early to start his coffee, fill the mile-worn thermos and solitarily load their newly-leased Dodge minivan. Each bag fits like a jigsaw piece into the trunk.
Argeeing to leave by 6:00 a.m. means little to my mom. Without fail, my dad huffs around at 6:10, grumbling down to my mom because she's still unclothed, blow drying her hair. In return, she sweetly replies, but after he leaves, she rolls her eyes. Dad's speech #234 begins as soon as he tromps up the basement stairs: "Your mother and your sister are never ready when they say they'll be. She's just like Granny you know--getting up with plenty of time but putterin' around, doing things that don't matter." Downstairs, I imagine her ever-present answer, something about how it doesn't take her too long to get ready.
By 6:30, they head to the airport in silence. The first verse of this song has begun like all other verses in their marriage: a grand adventure with great promise that'll turn to "Yellow Brick Road" in a few hours, but presently sounds like the deathmarch.