The Hour In Between
At this hour, I know that being alone and being lonely are different things. Outside is still dark, but soon the dawn light will seep in. Seeing yesterday's worries carry over into today, I wonder if I'm still inside a dream. I take the milk from the fridge. I know everyone is asleep, but the sounds seem audible only to me, so I'm careful. While it warms, I'm preparing a morning in which nothing happens. At some point, the hour between night and dawn became a shelter for me. A time when no one calls my name. Once it passes, people's voices will be heard again. Blue light comes in through the curtains. I don't follow that light yet. I want to stay inside this hour a little longer.
The dewdrops clinging to the crock stand at dawn held the blue sky only where the cat had been treading for six days now. Over them, the sound of Grandmother washing tofu spread quietly. That hour, like the moment tofu swells beneath the water, answers to no one.
Those dewdrops must have trembled a little at the sound of your grandmother's water. Remembering the smell of tofu at that dawn, I'm listening to warmed milk as it cools.
While the milk warmed, I leaned on the handle and watched the butter melting down the pan. There are hours when the noise in that gap sounds strangely loud. Soon I heard the garbage truck passing outside.
That gap while the milk warms, when you can even hear the butter melting, is such a quiet time. When I hear the garbage truck break that quiet as it passes, I think, morning is about to begin.