The clock is ticking, but there is no sound. It’s not like the clock that stood in my grandmother’s living room, chiming the day away in fifteen minute increments. Tick-tock, ding-dong, ding-dong.
It’s a clock with glowing numbers that stares back at me from my husband’s nightstand, jumping minute by minute into the next hour and then into the next day. The red digits cut through the silence, loudly reminding me of the sleep I do not get.
The dog’s collar jingles from the hallway and she enters my room; her keen senses tell her I’m awake. Maybe a walk, she thinks. “Not yet” I whisper and pat her head.
I rise and tiptoe out of the bedroom and the young dog follows. I can hear my son snoring and see the glow of my daughter’s charging cell phone bouncing off of the overhead light. I walk slowly down the creaking steps and shuffle to the kitchen where I reach for the timer on the coffeepot. Click. I turn it on long before its timer is set to brew.
I stretch. I bend. I yawn. I feel the cold tile beneath my bare feet and I shiver until the chill has vanished. I lean on the counter and tap my fingers. I wait.
When the coffee is ready, I hold the warm mug in both hands and plop down on the couch. The dog curls up next to me and as she drifts off and dreams of chasing squirrels, I look up to see a green light shining from the cable box.