I hear the faint sound of morning peeking into our bedroom window. I know the golden coins of sunshine will hit the pavement soon. First, there is the stray car, a honk of the horn, and the crunch of the gravel as an early someone walks their dog on the street. Sinking into my sheets, I hear the deep sigh from my daughter, one that indicates dreams of playing in the sand, talking loudly with her friends, and running from one place to another.
Thirty minutes later, the morning turns into a beginning. It starts everyday. In the same way. A fresh greeting from my daughter,
“Good Morning. Is it time to get up?” She asks the question, but does not wait for my answer. Her feet are shuffling toward the restroom as she rushes to the restroom. Flushing the toilet with purpose, she walks back toward me and announces that she is hungry for breakfast. I tell her something I’ve said a thousand times, “In a minute. Not just yet.” I don’t think she is listening because she is already downstairs.
There’s not many seconds for me. I try to grab a few in the morning. A few click-clicks on the computer, knowing sometimes I am looking and listening to noise, but unable to help myself. Ambling into the restroom, the water breathes relief on my face. The lingering smell of soap leftover when my daughter washed her hands. In the background, there is the sound of television, Mickey Mouse telling me, yes, yes, it is morning and time to start my day.
My husband heads to the shower, there is a whoosh from the air-conditioner, and a creak from the stairs as it begins as it has for so many years. I open the blinds. They clap in succession. Pulling a bowl from the cupboard, the cereal hits a little too fast, clanking the spoon from its balance. There are a few slurps of milk from my daughter, while my coffee drips, sucking itself into the white and black mug. It’s hot and I let it cool while I empty the dishwasher.
Do you hear it? This is the sounds of an ordinary morning routine. I am not certain what the day will bring. Maybe a friend announcing she’s pregnant or another confessing she is suffering from depression. Someone may cut me off in traffic. Or my daughter will be eager to show me an art project she made at school. I may write that perfect paragraph in my memoir. The phone will ring from the telemarketer.
As it begins, I cling to these sounds. I listen closely. What do I hear?
This piece is part of Momalom’s Five for Five Series. This is my response to the prompt listening.
Image by Jeffery Turner