What I cannot see, I know

RDP THURSDAY: In My Room

View from my hotel room, Geraldton, Midwest, Western Australia

The chill of the night dissipates slowly. My room is warming. It is early morning. The horizon is ablaze. I know this. I sense it. I can no longer see it, my limbs keep me still. Old Charlie, at the foot of my bed, is restless. His movements, a cue. A latch springs open, the gate creaks. Old Charlie leaves me, tick tocking his way across my room, his paws scratching the wooden floor. Soldier, that he is, he stands by the door. I hear my son’s “Good morning Mum, hope you slept well”. I cough my early morning cough and rasp out a feeble, “yes, dear”. My son leans down and kisses my forehead. Each day I wish I had the strength to lift my arm and touch his face. As he lifts the leash off the hook, the one to the right of the front door, it is cue for Old Charlie to wag his tail, he knows the routine well. My son takes Old Charlie for a walk, they would be gone for at least half an hour, but not far. Old Charlie, like me, is slowing down.

I hear the gate creak, my son and Old Charlie have returned home. I, too, know the routine well.

So does the silent woman in a hotel room across the road, who visits from the city.

Until next time

As always

a dawn bird