I love waking up on a weekend to the clichéd stuff. The chirping birds, the hot shining sun and of course the children playing. These happy little souls are free to be young again. All week long their budding minds are filled with school, homework and early bedtimes. But not on a Saturday. On a Saturday, they wake up when they want and do what they want. Which is usually early in the morning; and running around the apartment playground yelling as loud as their little voices would allow them to.
It’s a beautiful way to wake up.
When I was a kid my parents always wondered how my body clock worked. My school day started with a three stage ceremony. First my dad would come ask me to wake up. I would murmur something incoherent along the lines of 5 more minutes. He would come back in 10 and tell me if I don’t get up now, I’d miss my bus. And since I could not think of one good reason not to miss the bus, I’d slip back into blissful unconsciousness. Then it was mom’s turn. Dad was easy to convince. But mom had different strategies I dare not reveal here. So as soon as I hear her come, I’d be wide awake.
On the weekends however, I was the first one to wake up. This was usually before the early bird got up to get the worm. And it had a funny effect on my parents. I still don’t know why.
So here I was lying in bed wondering. Why is it so quiet today? I look at my watch, no I hadn’t overslept. The silence was deafening.
Where are all the children today?
300mm 1/640 at F5.6