It's so quiet you can hear the house age. Floors creak like my fifty-two year old knees. A faucet drips with the slow rhythm of a Sunday morning hymn, tic...tic...tic...No NPR warning me of crisis nor folly. Even my Blackberry is quiet, its battery exhausted from a week of what passes for work these days.
I step outside for the Post. Laurel Ave sleeps. Route 1 is still, bracing itself for the crush of the after church crowd in a few hours.
I love to be the first one up on Sunday morning. I wallow in the quiet. Alone with my coffee, dog and paper. No need to rush for the Marc train. No need to steal myself for the countless noisy duties of the day. I seem to even breathe and think better in the quiet. A thought comes to mind and I have the quiet to savor it thoroughly.
I hear the shower. Someone has turned on Morning Edition. I've got to get ready for Mass at Saint Mary's. I plug in my Blackberry.
Sunday morning in Oldtown has recharged me.
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