Katie Bennett

I wake up around 7:30, as my husband shuts the front door to leave for work. I note the red numbers on our alarm clock and tell myself I’ll get out of bed when they hit 7:40. I stare out the window, at morning light that’s dimmed as we’ve moved deeper into fall. This window is one of my favorite things about our otherwise unremarkable apartment, on a loud and filthy city street. With my head lowered in bed, the window frames only the sky, a tree, and frequent flocks of birds—an incongruously pastoral scene, accented by the sound of sirens and trucks unloading cases of Budweiser at the beer store next door. 

Time moves quickly these mornings. I’m not bored or anxious while lying still, “doing nothing.” Sometimes a dream from the night before pops into my vision, usually pregnancy-related. At 16 weeks I’ve dreamt of giving birth, miscarrying, & wading through murky post-hurricane flooding with my baby. 

I used to write down everything I dreamt, anxious to capture the other 8 hours of my life, but now I only write down dreams that pulse into my work day, that insist on my attention. Like the dream of giving birth—I was in The Woodlands, an old cemetery in West Philly with walking trails and lots of green space for picnicking, one of my favorite spots. I was surrounded by friends, by love. The birth was quick and easy. I told everyone, “I didn’t even tear!”, the phraseology from my waking life made funny against the eternity of the dream world. I needed to remember this dream because it was healing. Because I’d been so afraid the night before, so lonely. Who would care for me and this baby, with my whole family over a thousand miles away? The dream reminded me: my friends.

I eventually get out of bed, well after the ten minutes I’d allotted myself. I make toast and decaf coffee and try to write and read. Only this week have I been able to do either; for three months I was so nauseated, so sick, all I could do was lie and snack and stare out the window. This morning, not used to using my brain at such high capacity, I fall asleep for an hour after reading ten pages.

Around noon I wake up and get ready for my evening shift at the front desk of a community arts center in the Philly suburbs. The rest of the day isn’t really mine, but the residue of my private mornings sticks to me, sweetly.

Katie Bennett is a writer & musician based in West Philly. Learn more here: www.katiepbennett.com