The silence of my house in early morning: child breathing, infant purring, husband's whisper of air, HVAC whirring in the cold, still darkness outside.
A lone shower. Fog on a mirror. The tip tap of a light switch- on, then off.
Sometimes the warm, toasty smell of coffee: rich, dark, local. Other times, not. (Most often times, not.) Remembering to grind and set it in the chaos of post-dinner childhood bliss is hit or miss these days.
Dressing in blackness. Clothes out and angled correctly the night before. Eyes closed. Clock check. Water bottle.
The fffrrriiiiiggggg ugggg, fffrrriiiiiggggg ugggg of a breast pump. The glug glug glug of a baby, woken by hunger or longing or both.
Keys. Bag. Door closed and opened and closed again. Car turns over, shattering the stillness of night.
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