A Morning

I'm awake.

            I don’t know what time it is, but it’s early, evidenced by the silence. My ears are the first sense to rouse as it takes no effort—no heavy eyelids to heave open to peek for light. My nose confirms that the hour is early … I can’t smell anything, but a coolness fills my nostrils—the coolness of fresh mountain air in Ethiopia, uncluttered by exhaust and body odor and urine. I allow my lungs to slowly expel that first conscious breath and I pull in another cool chest full. It’s early.

            I lie there, still except for the almost-imperceptible rise and fall of my belly from breathing. A dog’s loud yip pierces the silence, drawing my attention back to my ears; other dogs join in straighaway in a sharp, urgent camaraderie of alertness and fear. What? What set you off? A mortal foe’s footstep outside the walls you protect? Yip! Bark! Barkbarkbark! Yiiiiiiip! Howwwwwwl!! The chorus drops off one-by-one as fears calm to confidence; I imagine dogs’ heads drooping, their eyelids reluctantly closing as they resume their fitful slumber.

            That very still ringing begins in my ears, that ringing that happens when your ears strain to hear but are not rewarded with a sound; insistent that they do their job, a tiny, ceaseless ringing begins. That’s my mind, I think. That’s the sound of vibrations from the teensy little electric pulses that my mind propels through my brain to acknowledge its own existence. That’s my ego demanding to be heard.

            I reengaged my nose. Nothing. The first smell, I think, will be from Buza, the cook. She’ll light a countertop kerosene stove and the strong smell from the burning fuel, or perhaps the fuel that escapes unburned, will leak out of the green cooker and drift past Buza, whose attention will be on the boiling water or on breaking apart the flat bread she made yesterday for the children’s breakfast this morning, or on the fresh rolls she will purchase on her way to the home today for Robin and I. The kerosene molecules, globbed together like a determined army, will storm out of Buza’s kitchen and right up the cold concrete stairwell where they’ll stealthily slip down the short hallway and through the generous gap under my bedroom door. The smell of kerosene will fill my nose and tell me that morning has come. Some mornings, each breath will draw in so much kerosene that I will wonder if an odor can kill me.

            But not yet. I notice that my nose feels chilly in the quiet coolness of this unknown pre-dawn hour. I bury it deeper under the red sheets and rough wool blanket. B.O. Blah. No shower since Sunday. It’s Thursday morning and I can begin to smell myself, despite my nightly effort to scrub away the layer of Ethiopia my body collected that day, rinsing it into a pan of warm water heated by an electric burner. I pull my purple lamb against my nose and give it a squeeze, crushing some of the lavender buds it contains to emanate a sweetness for the sake my nose.

            A rumble in the distance a few blocks off. It’s early. What would someone need to be awake this early for? What job would he have to go to with a truck as big as the one divulged by that deep mechanical growl? A puppy somewhere very close by lets out a high-pitched yip and begins to whine, obscuring the engine noise. An older dog barks back, scoldingly. Silence resumes.

            The birds haven’t started, I note. The dogs and the engine haven’t woken the birds. Only the sun peeking over the horizon rouses the birds.

            What time is it? Two o’clock? It is 5? I don’t know. I try to convince my mind that it doesn’t matter. My mind wants to be awake with my senses. I hush it: shhhhhhhhhhhhh. Not yet. I sink my mind into the simplicity of my breathing … innnnnnnn. Ouuuuuuut. Innnnnnnnn. Ouuuuuuut. Shhhhhhhhh. Don’t start yet. Listen. Listen to the silence, the still, early morning emptiness of Ethiopia that will soon enough grind into a cacophony of birds, then begin to clog with human clamor that will bludgeon this thick carpet of serenity. It will only be a matter of time before the myriad routines that emanate those noises radiate discordant odors that will engulf the cool, scentless air; then my eyes will demand to be opened to witness the action and before long I’ll contribute to the explosion that is like any other day in Ethiopia.