CACOPHONY

by Krista Allen

I’m not a morning person. It seems that everyone else in the neighborhood is–up singing at the crack of dawn, preening their lawns, checking how gardens fared in the cool Spring weather. I stretch, then close my eyes to get another hour, a few minutes, a wink.

We moved here for the solitude, not the acreage. The bucolic view is a bonus, a big backyard with fertile soil. A place to settle down, raise a family. 

I cry out! Just once. A plea, for everyone to please shut up, even for a moment. It’s like they’re mocking me. But they can’t even hear me over the din of their own voices, discussing plans for the day, getting breakfast.

Our closest neighbors just had triplets. I nod at the new dad’s weary visage when we pass. The constant feedings. The mess. Did I mention the noise? I can’t block out the cacophony, the cries. I’m secretly dreading the loss of my own freedom. My sanity. My sleep. My wife is so eager to start popping out kids. It’s all she can talk about. Nesting, daydreaming, chatting with that chick Robin from her choral group.

I squeeze my eyes shut but I can’t get comfortable. It’s like there's a stick poking my side, or a feather has gotten loose and is tickling my leg.

My wife comes in to berate me. Why am I still in bed? There’s work to be done. Hurry! The bed isn’t soft enough. There’s a draft. Go up to the farm and find something shiny. 

I admit defeat. I spread my wings and fly after her, into the misty dawn.