In the early hours of the day
when the lonely owl is interrupted
by the small twitters of rising birds
and the first blush appears in the sky,
I sit in my blue chair
and listen to the world around me.
The house is perfectly silent,
but soon the cries
of the little kids in the neighborhood will fade in.
So I treasure this time.
And this chair.
My sister would much rather have a queen-sized bed
to lounge spread-eagle on,
but I remain in this little blue chair,
my midpoint
between sleep and life,
between childhood and adulthood.
My sister can’t fit in here anyway—
she’s too big
and too old.
So it is only me who curls up in this space
to watch the sun slowly advance
across the floor to warm my feet.
It is all mine.
I’ve come to know this chair
with all that’s been going on.
Right now,
I should be slouching against the rigid metal backing
of the stools in the chilly geometry room.
Yet here I am,
observing my world
in a little bubble of peace.
From here,
I can see the trees in the backyard
looming over the garage
they have entwined with time.
And on the windowsill
my lavender,
remaining hostile inside
its yet-to-bloom bulb.
Next to me,
a spindly side table trembles
with the weight of my childhood.
Or at least the books that were a part of it.
My Father’s Dragon,
Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse,
and, obviously,
Harry Potter,
although you can’t really make poor Harry out
through this film of dust.
Eventually,
when the remainder of my tea
has gone cold,
I do have to get myself up
and truly begin my day.
As things go back to normal,
whatever that is,
I know that my little blue chair
will soon become a part of the background again.
A spot to toss blankets
and other miscellaneous items.
This period of serenity
will fade as the world returns.
It will be as if I had been living underwater,
and the sounds of life will trickle back
as I rise to the surface.
