Tuning the Morning Air

Tired of squeaking into that plastic horn just because you insisted on it. *Sigh.* I left the toy sousaphone propped against the wooden leg of the media console and grabbed an old, scuffed remote control lying face-down on the rug. Pushing the heavy red button took both hands, but the old tube television flickered awake with a hum of gray static. I dragged a faded red knit sock from underneath the cabinet, folded it into an improvised cushion, and sat down with my arms crossed, watching a quiet morning broadcast about a neighbor trading sneakers. It’s strange, low-key, and oddly calm. Better than all the loud brass noise anyway.