Stephanie Powell
Wake up routines: 2010 – 2020
(in no particular order)

And somedays, I’d wake up at five am, before the rest of the low, sleep-sewn bungalow. Sky hue of navy – right at cusp edge of dawn. The sound of grazing in the backyard, grass being ripped from the soil. I’d make tea, sit down at my desk and listen-out for footsteps on the landing. The pipes warming up in-between the walls.

And somedays, deep mid-winter, I’d wake up in darkness. The day already seen through. Tongue a slope of ash and vinegar. Mouth tasting like a split open tea-bag. I’d turn on the kettle, count my bruises and tidy things away.

And somedays, I’d wake up our legs and arms in a pile. My face touching your right shoulder. The duvet falling off the bed. Maybe rain coming down outside – I’d open the window to hear it better – the room half-dark, prayer-like.

And somedays, I’d wake up at seven-thirty, the first planes flying close, near to touching the roof of the inner-city flat. Bright light behind tissue-thin curtains, smell of cigarettes coming through the wall. Hot oil being worked into a frying pan in the kitchen – the lorikeets scratching and chirping at the windows.

And somedays, I’d wake up – the cold dug too far into my bones, and not get up at all.

And somedays, I’d wake up to heavy flip-flop steps like machine-gun fire in the kitchen. The crash of cutlery ripped from the draw and cereal bowl set-down down on the table. The wind-up croak of the toaster, dad scraping butter out to the edges of the bread- asking if I was awake yet.