Alarms

Ever before a night owl – but as a dad, no longer able to sustain the night – I remade my circadian clock for poetry and art. I craved the quiet dark of morning and found the smallest nook of predawn. But in a house of teachers and school age children, even morning silence is brief, and frequently broken by alarms. An escalating synthesizer followed by a sleep-filled exasperated sigh, and the clatter of a hand finding a phone in the dark to press snooze. The staccato squawk of a clock radio and clack of another hand slapping it off. Alarms to wake, to wake again, to wake again and shower, to move from the steam filled bathroom to dress, to the kitchen for tea or coffee, or to leave in time to stop for the same. When the last alarm has ended, the last independent individual gone, and the house again settles; when there is only the sound of a pen on paper and the smell of the cup of coffee going cold, our youngest child calls out for his mom.