Morning: Part Two

My alarm buzzes at half past five. I try to ignore it at first. I’m on my stomach, face down in the middle of my bed. I put my pillow over my head, pull my covers up to my neck and try to go back to sleep.  To sleep all day, to lay in bed with absolutely nothing to do and no responsibilities, that is all I want in the world. 

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Morning: Part One

I wake in the grey half-light of the early dawn. The blinds are shut tight, but the room is starting to emerge from the nighttime shadows. I uncurl from the ball I am so accustomed to sleeping in—rolled tight on my right side—like one of those bugs you find under a flowerpot after it rains. I stretch and pull on my glasses to see my bedside clock. I squint as I read it. It’s an old analogue thing—the kind your grandmother had. I found it in an antique shop in Brooklyn three summers ago with my sister.

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FictionJulia NusbaumComment

It’s the slow changes that are the hardest to notice. The slow changes that build until one day they have become a sudden change, like the leaves turning in autumn, or babies growing, or a lake receding. Out of nowhere, something that once was has become something new, and you can’t believe you didn’t notice it. It happened right in front of your eyes.


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