I woke this morning to the sound of someone scrubbing tile outside of my window. It was a truly disconcerting commotion that I had first noticed the previous morning but hadn’t been able to place what it sounded like. I envisioned an old pale man in a nightgown with vacant eyes that hadn’t slept in decades on his hands and knees scrubbing repeatedly the same couple tiles. The sound was stop and go, as if he was caught in the deed and hid from view until the sight was clear. This would go on between the hours of five and six a.m. To quench my curiosity, I peered through my blinds and saw nothing but the gurgling Jacuzzi below. As I arose for the day, I couldn’t help but feel the sensation of living out a scene of a Hitchcock film.
I made preparations in the kitchen for the day, warmed water in the kettle on the stove. The cat in the neighboring window across the way slinked through the blinds and we winked our greetings to each other. This has become a part of my morning routine, we’re early rising mates and will look around and wait for the other to appear.
As a lifetime early riser, I must speak to the magic of the still dark wee hours of the day. Perhaps I’m a bit greedy about these early few hours since I’ve hardly had to share them in the past. It’s not just the stillness and gentle purr of the appliances about the home, most specifically the fridge, do all fridges have such an expansive dialogue of sounds? It’s also the sensation of feeling one with the day, in a timeless fashion. Rested with a clear mind, you have the whole day ahead of you, a fresh slate to make the most of it. I notice things better, the intricate details and sounds that make life so fascinating.