Two Scenes

Scene I:
It is before dawn, and the room is still. A thick drowsiness hangs in the air. There is the faint smell of slumber and a calming blue on the walls. You trip as you stumble through the room. There are a dozen pillows tucked into every corner. There are ten tiny blankets strewn on the floor.

Scene II:
It is after lunch, and the hallway is empty. The curtains have been drawn in each room upstairs, and the quiet buzz of fans calls you into slumber. Every toy is in its place, and a book of nursery rhymes awaits on the couch. It is peaceful. It smells clean and fresh and relieving, nourishing.


These are the scenes that repeat day in and day out. I hope I never forget them. The first seems so fleeting; it is just this period of early morning after feeding a newborn, when the bedroom is "undone" and no one has slept much through the night. The second is more regular, a picture of how I prepare the upstairs for naptime.