Seventeen

An alarm sounds in the distance. Buzzing, barking, mauling the intricate silence of my slumber. My eyes wretch open much like a bird’s long retired wings — slowly and autonomously. A blink; I am seventeen today. The alarm forces my eyes to widen with each buzz and I can feel the first wave of morning frustration swell inside of me, ready to smite the object of disturbance. A blink; I momentarily awaken from my brutish stupor and analyze the sound, curious.

This foreign alarm is completely out of the norm. I deftly glide across my bed and grasp my cellular phone. It is still sleeping soundly. The childish curiosity fades abruptly as if slipping through the hands of a despondent youth. I desire nothing more than release from this infernal buzzing. The melodious tune worms its way into my ear canal and I insert a probing pinky into the small passage for good measure. What could it be? My vision is distorted, I am still without my glasses. Fumbling over my feet and tangled mess of clothes I find myself in front of my desk.

The sound is here, I know it. My hand slithers its way down to retrieve the rectangular obsidian not present the night before, all the while proceeding with caution lest the apparatus decides to flee. My hands circle around the device; still too blurry. I bring it closer to my face until the tip of my nose halts its advance. Oh, an iPod. The lights flicker on and my mother’s smile soothes an otherwise frenetic demeanor; happy birthday to me.

© 2010 Omar Guzman

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