Mornings

It's the early morning. I'm the only one up. The fresh coffee, that first cup. The sun comes through the East windows. Everything is golden and illuminated. It's quiet. The kind of quiet that affords a peace that can be broken at any moment. Its fragillity makes it all the more special. Things don't matter, just the peace, the quiet, and the solitude.

With the crack of the door, its handle turning, life resumes. Another person's feet pad down the hall, the bathroom door closes behind them. The sound of water running in the sink, broken by hands lifting up towards a face, splatters and pats. Sound effects narrate actions. The spell is gone.

The coffee pot is now communal. No longer a personal cauldron of inspiration. The kitchen is not a retreat for refills, but a pit-stop--a weigh side for refueling. The sun has risen above the windows.

Everything moves on.