The Rest of Me

Sleepiness has overcome the house. 7:23 a.m. And no one stirs. Even the dog lifts her head and struggles to keep her eyes open.

Quiet. Blessed quiet. The tick of the clock is the loudest sound in the room. I can hear the scratch of the pen against paper.

No electronic drone of conversation from miles away. No motors or engines. A smattering of bird calls.

The sigh of the dog, suddenly impatient, awaiting – what? attention? food?

To one who sits and waits all of the time, the joy of sitting and waiting is lost.

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