Prologue

This is the sole memory the main character has of his mother.

-PROLOGUE-

The sun shines against a pale blue sky, with only a few smudges of whispy white clouds to blemish it.

   Lush green leaves fill the trees and a thick lawn of grass stretches from the house to the curb. A soft breeze wafts down the street and ruffles through the trees, tickling the irises and daffofils that bloomed overnight. Tulips are just beginning to peek through the earth as well, in vivid shades of red and yellow and pink. Bees dart around the flowers, nervously attempting to decide which one is worth their while, until they finally land on their prime pick. Besides the hum of a nearby air-conditioner, the street is quite, almost solemn. If there are other people around, he doesn't notice them. If he and his mother are the last two people on the planet, he couldn't have cared less.

   The sun is so bright; it's shining directly on them, like a spotlight, he thinks. His mother smiles, leaning up against the house. She's holding a ball, and gently drops it on the cement porch, just hard enough that it bounces back up and he catches it. He smiles every time that he catches it, then he hands it back to her, which makes her laugh because he's too scared to throw it. She bounces it again, when the screen door opens and he looks up. The ball dribbles and rolls off the porch, sending him running to catch it and hand it back to her.

   "Why can't he throw it?" his father asks, standing in the doorway, holding open the screen door.

   "He doesn't want to," his mother says. "Anyway, I like it better this way."

   The man looks down at his son, who gazes back at him with eyes so big and blue and round. "Go on," he says, "throw it back to her."

   "No," his mother says, "bring it back to me." Her son waddles over to her.

   "Stop treating him like a dog." He rolls his eyes and goes back inside.

   "Don't listen to him," she whispers in his ear. "Now, go over there."

   The little four year old obeys and walks across the porch. He has dark hair, just like his mother, and his eyes are parallel to hers in every way. They match. They're a pair. Neither his brother or his father can come between them, because he's her favorite.

   Her shoulder length hair is down, framing her face. The breeze blows a strand across her cheek, and she lets it. If the four year old was any more in love with his mother, his tiny little heart would have gone into cardiac arrest. Everything is sunshine covered perfection: his father is inside, happy in the dark, dank house, and his older brother is doing wheelies with his friends a few streets down.

   The little rubber ball hits the porch and lands perfectly in his palm, and back his feet go to her. She runs her hand through his hair and tries to smooth down the tufts that spontaneously stick up. He stands still and clenches his eyes shut. He loves his mother enough to put up with it, but he hates it when people touch his hair. Once she's appeased, he walks back to the other end of the porch and the cycle begins again. Her laughter echos in the atmosphere, light and airy and free, or at least, that's how it seems in his memory.

Author's Note

This is the prologue of this novel I've been working on. Does it seem like a good beginning for a book? Can you clearly see the scene in your mind? I'd appreciate some insight.