In the early hours of the daywhen the lonely owl is interruptedby the small twitters of rising birdsand the first blush appears in the sky,I sit in my blue chairand listen to the world around me.The house is perfectly silent,but soon the criesof 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 bedto lounge spread-eagle on,but I remain in this little blue chair,my midpointbetween sleep and life,between childhood and adulthood.My sister can’t fit in here anyway—she’s too bigand too old.So it is only me who curls up in this spaceto watch the sun slowly advanceacross the floor to warm my feet.It is all mine.

I’ve come to know this chairwith all that’s been going on.Right now,I should be slouching against the rigid metal backingof the stools in the chilly geometry room.Yet here I am,observing my worldin a little bubble of peace.

From here,I can see the trees in the backyardlooming over the garagethey have entwined with time.And on the windowsillmy lavender,remaining hostile insideits yet-to-bloom bulb.

Next to me,a spindly side table trembleswith 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 outthrough this film of dust.

Eventually,when the remainder of my teahas gone cold,I do have to get myself upand truly begin my day.As things go back to normal,whatever that is,I know that my little blue chairwill soon become a part of the background again.A spot to toss blanketsand other miscellaneous items.This period of serenitywill fade as the world returns.It will be as if I had been living underwater,and the sounds of life will trickle backas I rise to the surface.