It is morning.
7:30 am.
The house is still.
My wife has left for work.
My son sleeps peacefully on the sofa,
worn out from a night of video-games
and cartoon shows.
The dog lies sleeping in his dog bed.
The cat sits at the threshold of the back door
and watches the chirping birds.
The only other noise
is the hum of the large air conditioner
in the kitchen window.
The only movement,
a drifting foil balloon
that reads "Happy Birthday".
The stand fan blows a soft breeze
benefiting no one except the artificial plant.
I need to make my lunch and head to work.
Instead, this is the time I choose to write.
Something in me decided I needed to capture this moment,
not on film or with a camera,
but with words.
