In the stillness there are faint clicks, creaks. The house awakes. Outside, a first bird sings. He makes his breakfast, the usual routine. He could do it with his eyes closed. And soon the cold air warms to the aroma of his coffee brewing on the stove. The smell gives colour to the room, density to the thin air. More birds sing, the sun rises.
Or rather, of course, the earth tilts towards the sun – how vertiginous! How shocking to think of that, he thinks, like those dreams he used to have, swaying atop of a long ladder, up in the clouds. At any moment, he thinks, we might tumble, fall headlong into the eternal abyss.
Sometimes, he misses his dog, Rose. Sometimes he misses his brother, his mother. There is a lot more emptiness these days – too much space in the day if that makes any kind of sense?
He looks at his hand holding the coffee cup – an old man’s hand. What became of me, the thinks. Once he rode his bike into the wind. Once he jumped ditches and ran down hills as fast as he could. Once they rolled down a hilltop, tumbling like sausages, him and his brother, dizzy and laughing at the bottom – disoriented, dazed.
What changed? The sun has risen. More birds sing.
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