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Writer's pictureTattoo Magazine

(SPRING 2021) December Mornings | Rowan Wasserman

Updated: Jan 20, 2022


The dog woke me up, far earlier than I would have preferred. Out the bay window I saw the line

of trees, not yet cleared by the early morning sun. My dog paced on the floor, paws tapping

softly against hardwood. She whines anxiously, desperately awaiting release from my room.

I swung my legs over the edge of my bed, preparing myself for the cold reality of the floor. My

red painted toes graced the surface, flinching away, back to the warm embrace of my bed.

But my dog was waiting, and she is lacking in patience.

Opening my door, the dog raced for freedom. Bouncing happily, overjoyed to escape the

bedroom. I chased down the stairs after her, jumping over that creaky step.

Leashing the dog, I slid open the door and was hit in the face with a rush of cold air, leaving icy

spiderwebs over my skin. I slipped my feet into thoroughly frozen shoes which left an imprint as

I pulled them off the ground.

The dog led me to the patch of grass and I shivered, cursing my decision to wear shorts to

sleep. I focused on the sound of the frozen blades of grass crunching under my feet.

I look up, my eyes darting between many points of focus. The flickering streetlight begging for a

replacement, the mountain of snow in neighboring driveways, a small bird nestled in the

treetops.

The cloud-covered sky above my head forbodes the coming snow and I find myself hoping for a

white Christmas.

A moment passes, and I close my eyes. I feel the cold around me, hear the waking birds

starting their melody. I smell the crisp air as I breathe in its sharpness, letting it fill my lungs and

melt away.

The dog brushes against my shaking legs, telling me it’s time to leave. Through the door, up the

stairs, back in bed. She curls herself against my chest and lulls me back into the warm hug of sleep.

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