There is something wonderful about waking up in the dim light of the early morning, yet it is a time that people often avoid like the plague. They are happy to stay cocooned in their warm sheets until the devastating shriek of their alarm clocks wakes them from slumber. But I have become accustomed to these early morning hours, peeking out from beneath my covers to see languid, blue light emanating from my bedside window. I sit up for a moment, running a hand through the tangled mess my hair has inevitably become. Sometimes I will sit in bed for a while, knees curled to my chin, listening. The coffee pot in the kitchen kicks on, gurgling and spitting. Cars pass every minute or two. I can hear the sound of my own breath. In and out. In and out. Then I am sliding from the comfort of my mattress to the cold, hardwood floor. I pad across it, the soles of my feet soft and silent. In the kitchen, the aroma of coffee is thick and heady. I sit at the kitchen table, hands enveloped around the mug’s warm circumference, and look out the window at the sky. It is an impossible blend of light and dark, and I can make out neither the sun nor the moon.
Outside the air is sharp, so cold that you can almost taste it. I pull my coat about my neck and attempt to start my car, a thin layer of ice encasing its body. While the engine purrs I wait outside, the heat slowly fading the sheen of ice in slow growing, half-moon circles. Frost blankets everything on chill autumn mornings. The grass looks delicate, like glass, and I fear that if I touch it that it will crumble in my hand. My breath spills from my lips in translucent puffs that rise into the air until they disappear into the sky. I stamp my feet on the ground, attempting to bring warmth to my unfortunate toes. When the ice is cleared enough for me to see out of the windshield, I drive. But it is not cities or neighborhoods that blur past my windows, it is the glittering, Pennsylvania landscape. It is not simply my front lawn that was kissed by the night’s frost.
When I tire of the silence, I switch the radio on, but only faintly. Just loud enough so the spell of the morning is not broken. In time, the sun peaks its head from behind a valley, shards of light splitting through the frail arms of the trees. Occasionally, I will pass a small house or cottage with the lights on and the blinds open, the sky still dim enough for me to glimpse inside. Every now and then, I see a person sitting at their kitchen table, perhaps with coffee, and I wonder if they are in love with the early morning, just as I am.
Seamlessly Small 