Sounds of Sunday Morning
The bed crooning as you rise. The newspaper crinkling as you read. The closet door creaking as you search for winter garb.
The grinding of the snow-blower merges with my dreams.
In my half-sleep state, I imagine you out there with your black cap and rosy cheeks.
I know you don’t enjoy this job, which makes me all the more grateful.
The screeching of our youngest. My sleepy voice calling him to me. His satisfied sounds as he settles under the covers of the big bed.
He was up too late. Blame the winter-break slumber party in his sister’s room.
But now, I hear his relaxed breath again, and feel the rising and falling of his chest.
And as the snow-blower continues to churn, I succumb again to still-heavy eyelids.
The kids colliding. You clomping your boots on the entryway rug. A clattering in the kitchen – the coffee-maker, perhaps?
Our oldest daughter brings me a fresh cup of brew with gingerbread creamer and Splenda. The squabbling ceases. You’ve left the paper at the foot of the bed for me, and I rise blissfully, knowing everything I need is here within the walls of our warm house.
The shower spraying. The cat stretching. And you, in cap and coat, snoozing mid-morning.