stepping into a silent kitchen
you normally woke to the sharp creaking of the old-fashioned toaster slowly raising the cooked bread. or the dull hollow crack of a porcelain mug being placed on the thick wooden breakfast bar.
this morning was different. you woke refreshed. no impulse to jump out of bed. you laid there, eyes open, wondering.
realization came. maybe two minutes had gone by. the house was deadly silent.
it was late saturday morning - around ten o’clock, according to your plastic triangle alarm clock, as you pressed the top of it to light up the dim display.
you raised your arms back and hooked your hands between the smooth varnished wooden bars of your bedhead. lightly stretched.
as you tentatively shifted the corner of your comforter aside, and swung your legs out, you noticed. your hips swam - leisurely, like breaststroke.
toes dipped into the cheap polyester carpet. you moved toward the door - ears out for the slightest sound from the kitchen. absence of sound.
walking through to the shared annex, you froze for a moment - your brother’s room across from you. tilted your shoulders to peer inside. bed unslept in.
you felt your face calmly contort into a quizzical look. automatedly, you twisted the brass knob leading into the kitchen. stepped through.
the house was empty.
you knew it right away - no one was home. there was always someone in the kitchen, mere feet from your bedroom.
gliding what would normally be a few steps, you leaned back against the island, feeling the cold wood press through your thin t-shirt. lower back.
weak yellow light made its way from the french doors, coloring the air. the very objects in the kitchen seemed stilled. to you, it was like they were relieved, at rest for the first time in a long while.
without thinking - you hadn’t thought since waking - you joined them in their respite.
you were 15, and hadn’t known a moment’s peace in four years.