Before I shower
The dirty sky brightens as my thoughts pass, the dingy pearlescent hues of morning softly streaking my hope and expectation. Through the collective drone of fans, the sound of air conditioning units, the birds are already a circus of sound. I do not recognize them individually, but drink in their music as if it were the first melody of my children. I know the ducks, though; they are easy. I spy them through my window blinds foraging in the grass beside the pond. The sky has become even brighter. I become aware of the whispered rush of faraway traffic from the expressway. The expressway never sleeps.
A goose calls out from across the pond, from underneath the weeping willow which stands admiring its reflection in the placid water. Birds flit around to and fro - sparrows I think, and others. I do not yet observe any signs of movement of people, except in the soft clicking of the keypad beneath my fingers as I type, and the occasional stirring of her behind me - sniffling in the cool air seeping through the half-opened bedroom window.
The trees lose their silhouettes and emerge from the twilight like nappy headed children stumbling out of bed into their parents' room. The birds are louder, chattering like children at recess, and my most recent dreams crawl up the ladder of this peace so as not to be forgotten - wanting to be shared once she wakes up.
But we argued last night - an explosion of exhaustion and stress.
A bird has alighted upopn a chimney and a car has driven past, startling a dove and a group of nuthatches or sparrows from the roof of the car port.
We argued last night, and even now time presses upon us, even as I type in the quiet of morning; even as she rests, unwilling to let go of her sheets. Time presses upon us as the sky becomes brighter, the clock reminds me that it is ten minutes before seven, and the little one sleeps downstairs on the sofa.
The day will begin when she slips out of bed, shattering the peace of morning and replacing it with a new pace - her comfort level. Incrementally we will all begin to rush into the day - finding clothes and ironing them, washing up and brushing teeth; our ears accosted with the familiar noises of intention. We will become nearly blind to the beauty of dawn, enjoying it only as an afterthought - preoccupied with the plans for the day.
She is up now, suddenly. The bathroom door has already closed behind her. She has mapped out the entire day while I have pecked at this keyboard. The roll of toilet paper rumbles. She will wash her hands after flushing the toilet and go downstairs to make her coffee. She will wake up the little one, excited about the day's plans. Perhaps she will say, "good morning." It won't be too loud, though. We argued last night.
A goose calls out from across the pond, from underneath the weeping willow which stands admiring its reflection in the placid water. Birds flit around to and fro - sparrows I think, and others. I do not yet observe any signs of movement of people, except in the soft clicking of the keypad beneath my fingers as I type, and the occasional stirring of her behind me - sniffling in the cool air seeping through the half-opened bedroom window.
The trees lose their silhouettes and emerge from the twilight like nappy headed children stumbling out of bed into their parents' room. The birds are louder, chattering like children at recess, and my most recent dreams crawl up the ladder of this peace so as not to be forgotten - wanting to be shared once she wakes up.
But we argued last night - an explosion of exhaustion and stress.
A bird has alighted upopn a chimney and a car has driven past, startling a dove and a group of nuthatches or sparrows from the roof of the car port.
We argued last night, and even now time presses upon us, even as I type in the quiet of morning; even as she rests, unwilling to let go of her sheets. Time presses upon us as the sky becomes brighter, the clock reminds me that it is ten minutes before seven, and the little one sleeps downstairs on the sofa.
The day will begin when she slips out of bed, shattering the peace of morning and replacing it with a new pace - her comfort level. Incrementally we will all begin to rush into the day - finding clothes and ironing them, washing up and brushing teeth; our ears accosted with the familiar noises of intention. We will become nearly blind to the beauty of dawn, enjoying it only as an afterthought - preoccupied with the plans for the day.
She is up now, suddenly. The bathroom door has already closed behind her. She has mapped out the entire day while I have pecked at this keyboard. The roll of toilet paper rumbles. She will wash her hands after flushing the toilet and go downstairs to make her coffee. She will wake up the little one, excited about the day's plans. Perhaps she will say, "good morning." It won't be too loud, though. We argued last night.
posted by Eric at 3:10 AM
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