Roderick took the quiet mumbles as permission to continue his self expression, which he did with gusto.
His mother flopped down at the dining room table, sifting through bills without actually seeing any of them. Her mind clanked painfully over punishment options for her boy, second of three, the one who only chuckled condescendingly at TV shows and spent all his time filling notebooks with a life as of yet un-lived.
A thin voice rang out over the guitar riffs in the next room, “Annnnnd…arabesque!”
“Roderick! Turn it off, and go to…” She hesitated. The room wasn’t much of a punishment. He’d only write or invent some project, like last week’s stock projections based on fruit and things cowboys say.
“The backyard?” came a helpful suggestion.
She snapped, “Your room! For crap’s sake, Rod…” Exasperation overwhelmed her maternal need to scold properly. Bare feet slapped their way up hardwood stairs. Tired hands cradled a straining mother’s head.
Life rolled forward, for the time being.