Wake up to a quiet house, the low electric hum of the bedside fan barely audible. Amble out to the kitchen to put the kettle on and brew the morning coffee while checking my phone for messages. One cup, one sugar, a bit of cream; pour the coffee into the French press, stir 100 times with a plastic spoon, press, and pour. Overstep the child gate meant to keep the dogs out of the office, set the coffee down at the desk, sit down in the swivel chair, and boot up the computer. So it has been, and so it will be, for the foreseeable future.
I remember reading somewhere that a person can drown in less than 6 inches of water. Of course, now that Google exists, I can do more than rely on my faulty memory, and actually look up this fact. Young children can drown in less than 2 inches of water. Oh, well, that’s even scarier than the number that I remember.
It’s hard to say which memories will stay with you and which ones will fade. Something happens, and at the time, it seems so insignificant, yet years upon years later, you find yourself sitting alone writing about memories, and just like magic, there that insignificant event from your past is, dancing around on the front of your lobe like so many Warner Brother’s frogs, outfitted with walking canes and top hats.
I don’t remember my first encounter with a gaming system. While some people can wax poetically about the way a room smelled 30 years ago when their trembling, sweaty hands first clutched that plastic controller and choirs of angels sang hymns of glorious revolution behind parting clouds of golden fiery explosions, I can’t even be sure which system was my first.
It’s Midnight. Whatever. The house is still, there are noises in the night that I can not define, and my wife snores in the bedroom like she’s being payed overtime.