Aftermath
The sounds of morning. Harison preparing his breakfast downstairs, occasionally throwing a short fit of coughs, or a sudden burst of sneezes. The raging of his loud coffee bean grinder. The slightly loose downstairs bathroom door clunking open and shut. Harison spitting out water in the sink while he is brushing his teeth. Earlier in the morning. The newspaper delivery person in their car, turning to our little alley on his route, just below the window closest to the bed. The newspaper delivery person distributing the paper into mailboxes. The newspaper delivery person turning their car around in the far end of the very short cul-de-sac and returning to the street. The floorboards’ tactful yawns and unassuming stretches, preparing for another full day of stomping feet upon them; almost silent little whines and noises, almost, but not quite. A faint creaking sound from downstairs. That used to drive me mad when we were brand new homeowners. Now I know it is just one of this old house’