Sleepy Mornings

16:35 EST, 05 April 2003

I woke up this morning to the familiar far away sound of my parents' voices and the tining of silverware against breakfast plates. It was a childhood sound, recalling mornings, like this one, when I slept past nine, waking gradually, drifting in and out and in and finally out of sleep. It was the sound of Mom in her robe with the business section and a buttered croissant and Dad in his slippers with the automobiles section and a bowl of Raisin Bran. It was the promise of the fresh Swedish pancakes my father would whip up. It was the sound that drew nearer and nearer as I descended the stairs in rumpled pajamas, hair askew as I rubbed bits of sleep from my eyes. It was a sound that connected me to former selves, that showed clear the thread of myself that has woven through all the different fabrics of my life.