Four months spent in Denmark, and not a single moody day. No tears, no anger, just the usual comical, Irish temper I get from my dad. The kind with muttered short and stuttered, ‘stupidfrickindumb,’ under my breath as I broke open the yolk on accident while I fried an egg. The same egg I scraped off a grimy pan I forgot to butter, and eventually burned my impatient tongue on.
They say when there’s nothing to talk about, talk about traffic. Normally, I’ll chuckle and roll my eyes with whomever I am chatting with about the standstill on the I-10, or the limited street parking in West Hollywood. But lately, traffic has actually been really awful. So much so that it does need to be talked about, if only for my own sanity.
I remember being a kid with a routine, dad carrying me to bed, singing to me, and reading Sleepy Dog. Mom coming to choose my outfit for school the next day and making sure I brushed my teeth. Shannon, my sister, still up watching TV because she is older.
“It’s okay to sleep in,” The little owl clock said to her. Its fake owl eyes bouncing back, and forth back, and forth and back with the seconds. Owls are wise, especially this one. It comforted the sleepy girl, telling her nursery rhymes and jokes, it had secrets it told, and it never forgot to say good morning at 6:04 AM, when her mind and body aligned, flawlessly punctual every time.
Nothin' is harder to do than nothing.