The refrigerator rumbles this morning. I cannot ignore it. In an unusually silent house, the noise fills the empty kitchen. The house is missing the sounds of June as much as I am craving the silence of the morning. Where is the boy who looks after the sheep? He’s under the haystack fast asleep. The lyrics of the old nursery rhyme my mother always loved instinctively slip across my mind like loons landing upon the cool lake, rippling the waters around them. I think of June and how I held her the other afternoon before her nap, reading from the same nursery rhyme book my mother once read. Like the lake water, time surges and swells with the moon’s pull. And the dish ran away with the spoon.
My mind is cluttered with debris lately, taking the joy from writing. As a practice, I focus on the details of now in order to call out inspiration from its hiding place. Last night I dreamed of tornadoes encircling a party. We ran to a basement and hid beneath desks. The only desk left for me had three legs and so I held it down as the gray dirt blew around me. As the winds calmed and people rose from the ground, weary and ashen, I smelled soup on the stove and found myself transported to Colorado with Sean and June, who cooked soup from a black iron kettle beside Sean’s brother and his laughing wife. Sometimes settling dust does take us somewhere new.
There are no tornadoes in my real life. At 7:20 this morning I write with the waking birds, who seem to appreciate the slow pace of our town. June, in her crib, is beginning to awaken. Like her parents, she seems to love the quiet of her bedroom in the morning. The light through the curtains cast shadows through her crib where she lays, thumbing her blanket and sucking her pacifier. Occasionally we hear her sing out, but she isn’t crying for attention or demanding release. She is content. The mornings alone in her crib pacify her wild spirit and prepare her for the antics ahead. I love this about her and write to remind her one day of what a joy she was each morning.
My coffee tastes good this morning, better than most days. And I take few sips in silence before opening the door to June’s room and letting the light spill into the rest of the house. She and I are heading to brunch this morning with friends. A tradition of sorts that has been carried on from last year. I dress her and hug her, take her in the bedroom and let her crawl on top of Sean until it is time to leave. We sit outside in the morning sun, she in her car seat beside the garden, me looking to the road for our friends. It is a simple morning with dew of flowers and smiles on our faces that I hope to remember for ever.