Waking up to Norah Jones in my ears and Lady at my feet
A little word vomit on a favorite familiar feeling
For the past five years, since my very first morning alone in my very first solo apartment in Midtown Atlanta, I’ve been lifting my heavy morning eyelids to “Sunrise” by Norah Jones. That first morning alone, I remember the sunlight striking my cement ceiling and shading only the leftmost corner of my makeshift studio bedroom, which I separated from my “living room” with two lace curtains from IKEA. I had just signed a full-time offer at my local newspaper and a lease. I felt untouchable.
I still associate the song with that first taste of adulthood, sweet solitude, sunshine, with an eagerness for whatever the day may bring and the comfort of knowing where I’ll lay my head by night.
Once Lady came into my life, the song played an important conditioning role in her puppy training. The song would begin, her eyes would open, she would sleepily falter off the bed and onto the ground with a mousy whine and we’d head downstairs to the dog park. Three years later, she still recognizes those first few beats before Jones even chimes in as her wake-up call, and an instinctual morning stretch ensues where she sleeps at the foot of my bed and eventually, groggily, she makes her way to the yard through the basement doggy door.
This afternoon, as I was working on a new short story and listening to a summertime jazz playlist I had on shuffle, the song came on and caught us both off guard. She was on the other side of the yard, sunbathing. I was on an outdoor lounge chair. We looked right at each other, and she cocked her head to the left.
After a brief return to that morning—and to my first few days with Lady nuzzled along my neck and shoulder—I retired to my writing and she to her midday sleep.
—fiza
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