My eyes sprung open in the darkened room. I lay in the bed
trying to decide if perhaps I might fall back asleep, but the numbers on the
clock radio filled the room with a lime green glow and my mind began its
predawn ritual of worry. Not wishing to wake my husband, I rolled from the bed,
fumbled through the jumble on the bedside table to retrieve my glasses, phone
and iPad, and quietly snuck from the bedroom to the sanctuary of the “new
couch,” a couch we have had for thirty-seven
years, certainly not the newest couch in the house, but indisputably the most
comfortable. I piled the square pillows around me, building a nest to cradle my
aching back and hips, and settled in to await the dawning of a new day.
My head pounded as if the infantry was marching through my
house, raising a cloud of urine-tainted cat litter dust and releasing a flood
of post-nasal drip down the back of my throat. I heard the click of the thermostat and knew the AC soon
would be blowing chilled air throughout the house. The door at the top of the
stairs swung open and bare feet shuffled across the oak-grained floor. Glancing up, I saw the ghostly image of
my night-gowned sister illuminated
by the nightlight as she traveled to the bathroom and back to bed. The
stairs began to creak and I knew my husband was half-awake and making his way
to the recliner in the media room upstairs. After much mumbling and grumbling and creaking of leather,
he and the ancient black cat inherited from my mother following her death 14
years ago fell into sonorous sleep.
Slowly the dark sky began to turn a pale gray, the birds
began to sing their greetings to the rising sun. Cars traveled down the street, slowing as they approached
the stop sign, accelerating as their drivers continued on their way to work.
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