Ryanne Molinari

There is a peculiar cadence to my morning routine. My mom pointed this out a few days ago, and I’ve found it to be a source of amusement and consolation.

Each morning, I apparently not only follow the same routine but make the same sounds. First, there is creak of my bed as I search for the snooze button. After a brief tacet, there come the final, warning strains of my alarm and the soft whoosh of the carefully-folded covers.

Next, the clink of a glass tolls the hour. There is the running of the tap and the flick of a towel.

Then, the click of a kettle and the ding of the toaster chime in, accompanied by the rattle of ice and the clicking of vitamins.

At last comes the rustle of a newspaper and, then, the more sturdy, enduring thud of my Bible falling open.

Accentuating this small sonata is the sharp inhale caused by a first sip of coffee that is still much too hot.

Yes, my mornings sound the same each day, but I find this far from dull; rather, it is this regimented cadence that establishes a rhythmic and even musical order for the rest of my time. This is comforting, for whatever happens tomorrow (and, based on the way 2020 has gone so far, something likely will), I can continue to practice and pursue contentment in the repetitive rhythm of this morning music, which is humbly composed of the boiling of water, the clinking of mugs, and the stifling of yawns.