On an ideal morning, I would wake up with (or shortly after) the sunrise, as usual; the grey-dawn light of my room suffused pale and dim.
I would pad out to the silent, dawn-lit kitchen, and start the coffee. Put two cups on the counter– one for me, one for John. A tablespoon of sugar, a splash of half and half.
Let the dogs out. Scratch the cats’ head.
Curl up on the couch. I have not yet said a word. No voice or observation has broken the morning silence. The dogs settle, quiet and snuffling, at my feet. I open my FB feed and scroll through the morning news.
The coffee beeps. I unfurl. Pour into the readied cups. Return to my seat to nurse the bitter-sweet drink and beautiful solitude. The dogs, roused by my movement, have followed me into the kitchen and back, and settle once more.
I do not feel the need to comment on it.
I do not speak to them.
I open a book.
For the next several, silent hours of my ideal morning, I would read.
I would not initiate speech, or turn on jabber noise, or text anyone. Just, for a few precious hours … stolen silence.