The woman sits on the wide front porch that spans the width of the house, sipping her coffee in the early morning light. The old porcelain mug warms her hands as the ocean murmurs just beyond the dunes. The birds are awake and singing, despite the sleepy hush lingering in the neighboring cottages—closed windows and drawn curtains hinting at warm bodies still curled beneath covers, sweet dreams floating behind closed eyelids.
Some folks prefer the quiet of night, staying awake long after the sun slips into the sea, witnessing the world slow and still. Others choose the hush of dawn, when the sun begins to lift her glowing reddish-orange head, content to savor the quiet solitude before the day stirs.
But then there are those like her, caught in a rip current–sleeping very little, kept awake by the ghosts of old rhythms, and waking early as if summoned by the tide. One year ago, she had no trouble sleeping, not when there was someone in the other chair.
Her bare feet rest gently on the porch floor as she rocks, careful to avoid splinters from the weather-worn boards. The tide pulls in and out, steady as her breath, and she swears she can still hear his footsteps through the screen in the kitchen behind her. His cup still hangs above the coffee pot–she hasn’t yet found the heart to add it to the donation box with the rest of his things.
The girl arrives tomorrow. Summer is coming, and the house that has been quiet too long will once again be filled with noise and life. She hums a tune she doesn’t remember learning as she finishes the now cold coffee.