Waking Up

Jul 9, 2013 by

And for the briefest of moments, they were altogether unfamiliar.  Over the years, one does not simply forget the color of their bedroom wall.  At this hour, a faint, orange light is usually the only hue that can be observed moping across the eggshell paint as it passes through the blinds.  This morning is different.  On some level, the early morning light is the first hint as to how the day will unfold; the weather, temperature, and humidity add their signatures during the journey from the sun to the wall.  The shadow that forms the bottommost border of this orange scene could easily be mistaken for the profile of a stringed instrument — the sort of svelte curve that is only perfected over countless years of patience and brilliance.  On this occasion, the shadow’s culprit is the warm cocoon of sheets and blankets that have conformed perfectly to her slender figure over the course of the evening.  Her mattress takes pride in its role of gravity’s steady counterpart, and it knows just how much give and take is required for her to sleep soundly.  It seems as though each element of the room is making a concerted effort to induce sleep, but their shift is drawing to a close.

Breaking free from the warm nest she’d built for herself is no easy task, but it is necessary, in part, to make the quarter-turn that will bring the clock into view.  No one thinks to remember the details of such a routine motion, but then again, who could possibly anticipate that such minutiae would need to eventually be recalled, passed down, speculated, and exaggerated by old folk without the perspective afforded through the passing of time.  It happens so quickly and so unexpectedly that no one is prepared to feverishly jot down notes or capture their thoughts on little voice recorders.  The truth is, such efforts would be a waste of time as there is no combination of words, no metaphors, and no anecdotes that could begin to describe what happens next.  The best attempts would probably try to stir up the emotions you feel when the illuminated sign of an open gas station pierces the darkness over the crest of a snow-laden hill when your car is running on fumes, or perhaps conjure up the smell and crackle of the fire that erupts from your last match, restoring hope that rescue choppers may finally spot you in the wilderness.  It’s the song on the radio when one experiences their first kiss — the shade of fresh, pink paint that coats the walls of an office turned nursery.  All I can say with certainty is as she turns in her bed, the morning sun fills her big, brown eyes, and it changes me.

What does one call that handful of seconds where remnants of dreams spill over onto reality? It can be quite cruel at times when deciding what stays and what goes.  I’ll miss the paintings, but I’m glad to see my light fixture…I’m almost certain there isn’t a horse at the foot of the bed.  The most important detail is coming into focus when I hear her voice and my doubts vanish.

“Good morning,” you say through a grin.

“Good morning, beautiful…”

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