It is early on a Saturday morning and I am sitting here, bleary eyed and semi-conscious. Like the morning itself, I am neither awake nor asleep, neither bright nor dark, not quite fully arrived, but very obviously here.
The sun is on its way up, but is a little late arriving, giving the dim squares that punctuate the dark walls a sort of bluish-gray dusty haze of light, too weak to force its way in past the drapes just yet. A single bird is sending out tentative little peeps and pings as if to see if any other birds are awake yet, and the silence seems to say, “No, only you”.
It is a glorious blanket of silence that has settled over the uniformity of suburbia, like a dry, fluffy layer of foam, 12 feet deep, cozy, and stifling.
But it will not last. The sun will burn off the silence. Cars will begin to emerge from their burrows and scurry here and their in their noisy little runs. The birds will begin to bicker in the trees. A TV will be turned on somewhere. A washing machine will be started. A vacuum cleaner will scream in high-pitched monotone. The noisy, obnoxious world will insinuate itself into my burrow and taint everything it touches like the odor of some large animal expired not so very far away, but close enough to remind me that it is always present even if I choose to pull the drapes to pretend it doesn’t.
But for this moment, it is glorious, to be wrapped in so much silence and obscurity under a blanket of gloaming.