My bedroom in the early morning is so quiet, still as if time has stopped. Even as if never started. It feels suspended like a trapeze artist hangs in the air above upturned anxious faces. I hear the stillness that rests on top of me. NPR alerts me to the time, 6a.m., time to get up. Now that winter has arrived in my room most mornings I stay as long as I can, linger under the sheet, the quilt, the down comfortor now so worn with time and dreams it is flat in every location. I'm released, freed from responsibility in this suspended dome I know as my bedroom. Nine minute increments I play over and over. The time my snooze button and I are allowed to dance, hold hands. My books watch over me. Patient, silent, guarded. Then somberly sunlight seeps into the room. Awakening as well with resistance, even the same shared apprehension I sense. The lanky and isolated trees just outside my front room window sway to silent music only they can hear and know. I'm alone. Just by myself. Possibility oozes out of me. My thoughts scamper loudly and diligently to the front of my brain. It is a new day, a chance to try again. The smell of coffee being brewed now drifts down the hall, ending in my room just above my head. It is my morning friend, the only one to actually understand me, my position here in this room, this house on the shore. I place my feet on the floor...
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