Canterbury Tales

(i)

The first frosty night of the season brings the sounds of this place into stark contrast with the quiet of summer.  I lay listening to the echoes across concrete and pipes as life works its way back into the tenants. 

Mrs. Vermette begins the routine, always with a cough announcing her slumber disturbed.  Her tabby claws clack across the floor as she moves to her bathroom.  Duty complete she will always leave the toilet running (quick go catch it I always think) while she feeds tabby, returning to jiggle the handle and take her shower.  Always quick, to the point, the rush of water announcing the completion of the prelude and on to the show.

Noah is next, his machine sputtering to life with a few beeps followed shortly a few farts and hisses, the Kuerig punctures the packet and forces steamy water through the coffee brew choice of his day.  He gargles.  He always gargles and then exercises his singing voice through a couple scales, an ode to the dropping diminishing moon.  There is a giggle, a girl has honored him by spending the night.  Noah pours two cups.

Down the hall another singer.  I know this woman only by voice.  I have stood outside her door, across and down from my laundry room, and listened to her powerful voice through pop and jazz tunes.  There is never an instrument.  Occasionally a single sustained mechanical note pulled from her Apple will give her a reference point.  She exercises her yoga to a quiet lulling music. I couldn't do this I think.  I would fall back to sleep with that meditative sound.

The divorcees are next, two on my floor and Jack one floor down.  We share a common routine.  Get up, stare at the sky for a few brief moments, marveling at the view, at the bright moon in the autumn dark morning sky.  We use the bathroom and check our computers.  I imagine they like me are hoping for snippets of connection back to our non-professional worlds to ground our day.  Family, friends, people we love to grant us the historical it-is-worth-it perspective to the work we each do.  We feel the loss yet revel in our singleness, our separation.

I will shower soon.  I can hear you, a yawn long needing release.  You talk about children and dogs and ask why many times over.  Your slumber, long necessary to your healing will soon come as the remainder of us begins to rise to routines.  What did you dream you ask?  I slept deeply yet I recall my dream.  It is my dreams, my elusive self, and I keep it to myself.

You fascinate me, your mettle an inspiration, you resolve in me a new spirit to carry forward.  I call a thanks to the dawning sky for your spirit and presence here with me as I rise.

Good morning.