There’s something about the quiet before the storm. And my quiet begins at 6:30 in the morning, well before the house begins to stir, well before I am in demand. No need for an alarm as my body clock keeps perfect time. I reach for my glasses just to confirm what I already know that it is in fact morning and that my spouse and sixty-two-pound Labradoodle, Baxter, are still beside me in their own silent unconsciousness.
Over the years, my extraction from bed has proved more challenging, and today is no exception. Where it was once a quick fluid motion has become systemically calculated movements. Where I once could tiptoe silently through the room its now with murmurs of stiffness and instability. And just as I find balance, Baxter’s head pops up, as if his own internal alarm has signaled that I’m on the move. He’s my shadow into the bathroom so as not to lose sight of me and yet he doesn’t demand anything except my company. I’m quiet in the bathroom, a quick gargle of mouthwash and changeover into sweatpants and a tee shirt all the while keeping the lights to a minimum glow so as not to disrupt the solitude of the morning.
We head to the stairs as we make our way to the kitchen, Baxter always a step behind until he can’t help himself as his waggle overtakes me. I never tire of watching his natural swagger as he’s my first smile of the day. I grab a coffee mug from the cabinet, two sweeteners and a splash of half and half are added, and then position it in front of the coffee maker in anticipation of its purpose. I prepare enough coffee for those still asleep. While it brews, I retrieve the morning paper from off the driveway as Baxter relieves himself on the front yard and then we both reunite at the top of the steps to continue with our morning ritual. No words have been spoken. We’re like an old married couple.
The aroma of a freshly brewed cup of coffee never gets old. It’s hot, with steam fogging my glasses as I raise the mug to my lips always holding it with both hands as if it were delicate memorabilia. And that first sip is like fuel to the engine, medicine for the soul. You know immediately when it starts kicking in. And it’s still quiet. It’s 7am and the world is at peace or at least within the framework of my home. And I have complete autonomy of the next forty-five minutes. There’s that contentment that during those 45 minutes everyone in my family is where they are supposed to be, that their health and safety are still in a state of repose. During those 45 minutes, the concerns of yesterday are not nearly as weighty as they were yesterday.
The phone is silent, and the demands of my time are my own. My availability is inherently inaccessible, without guilt or apology. I situate myself always on the first stool at our bar-height kitchen counter, with only the natural light of the morning peering through our intentionally naked floor-to-ceiling windows. I am captivated by the serenity of our backyard, sheltered from our neighbors by a barrier of trees and hedges. It’s where I first notice the changing of the seasons or become fixated on the squirrel who has found itself on the top of our pool cover trying to determine its pathway to stable ground, or remember to change the clock on the exterior of the pool house as it’s still an hour off. It’s a deliberately uncomplicated moment of time.
I plan my day and write my lists; groceries for the house, gifts for upcoming or belated events, errands that may or may not be tackled but will be a reminder for tomorrow’s list, bills that need attention, and appointments that need to be met. It’s the lists that gives me structure and purpose for the day and a sense of accomplishment as things are checked.
During those 45 minutes I may relive the conversations of the previous day, either absorbing or speculating on the impact of what was said, or smiling from the eventual outcome, or regretting words that were shared. I may play devil’s advocate over an anticipated occurrence, engaging in a full conversational banter. And in those 45 minutes I find wisdom that wasn’t there yesterday and experience a calm that I know will dissipate by the days end. But it’s a calm I will savor with each sip of my coffee.
It’s 7:30, Baxter has made his way to the sofa, with his head on the armrest always facing me. I hear a stirring upstairs and will it back to bed as I’m not yet ready to indulge another. I still have the newspaper and Suduko to complete. I read the front page of each section of the paper as that’s typically where the important features of the day reside unless a story warrants further interest, but without fail I never just gloss over the obituaries. I start with the Jewish stars as there’s a strong likelihood that its someone we know, and then I focus on the ones with photos attached, and inevitably find myself wondering, of all the pictures that were considered, why would they choose this one? I search for their ages and the causes of their demise and feel short-changed if either is unavailable. There’s a sigh of relief when their years are well beyond mine and a bit circumspective when they are not. And yet I know that an hour from now, all that will be forgotten, but it's that short-lived perspective that comforts me in that short-lived moment of time.
It’s now 8am and I grab a pen for the daily Sudoku. Depending on the day will determine its level of difficulty. If it’s Monday, I will breeze through it and even have time to complete the two other word games. By Friday I may give myself an extra few minutes. It’s now nearing 8:30 and I’m beginning to hear the creaking from the floorboards above me and confirm from the sudden rapid flow of water that the upstairs shower has been activated and that my time is fading. The commitments of the day will begin to take root. I check that the coffee maker is still on for those just rising as that’s what they have come to expect. And I’m now ready to expect them.
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