Sounds of Sunday Morning

I am far away from home, yet I am there. My eyes are closed, and I can see and hear everything. It is Sunday morning and I hear the muffled static of the stereo being turned on, a distinct white noise that transforms into a thumping beat of classic rock. It’s a signal, a signal that it’s time to wake up. Groggy and restless, I finally lift myself from the bed, its ancient mattress coils emitting a resounding, shrill squeak. I make my way downstairs to our piano room, and from there, the kitchen is half visible. I can see the back of my dad’s head as he carefully leans over the morning paper, flipping and folding, fluttering and flapping, building a crescendo of rustles. He obnoxiously slurps from his cup of coffee, and it makes me think of a large crashing wave. I’m now sitting on our couch next to the window, and another pot of coffee is brewing, bubbling; it sings a song of drip, drop, drip, drop, interrupted by rough coughs of steam every so often. I can already smell it from the piano room, and its scent conditions my mouth to water and my stomach to rumble like a distant thunderstorm. But I stay where I am–my favorite room in the house–and I try to block out the sounds of the coffee–it’s a torture to wait. So I focus on the sweet melody of a bird’s song outside, intertwining with the tinkling and plinking of our wind chime as it catches a gentle breeze; the harmony contrasts with the sounds of our stereo, which has become louder and louder, vivacious booms of the music which shake the entire room and thud within my chest. I’m lost for a moment, until my dog lets out a ferocious bark from outside the window, less of a bow- wow, more of a ruff, and this makes me think of how people say that dogs bark in different languages, just like humans speak in different languages, but these thoughts are soon interrupted by the cheerful tone of my dad’s voice: “Coffee’s ready!” And I start thinking, that sentence may be the most beautiful sound in the world.

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