My professor assigned the class to write about a memory from childhood.

Mornings

I wake to the click of the lamp. A warm blue light fills my bedroom. My brother, Dan, his hand still reaching under the lampshade, whispers, “Go back to sleep.” I don’t, but I close my eyes so that he won’t notice me.”

This routine happened every morning. Dan is eight years older than I am, so when he woke up for high school, I knew I had an extra hour to sleep before going to Hoover Elementary. Warm blankets covered my body, except for my head, giving me great comfort. I was warm, and I was watching my big brother.

I remember his breathing: loud, deep sighs to wake up. Nobody breathed like he did. He sighed with his jaw almost rigid, breathing through his bottom teeth. As he put on his clothes, every sound intrigued me. The clicks of buttons and the swooshes of cloth against cloth were as peaceful as the distant sounds of a beach or the light patter of rain in November. He wore brown corduroy pants, a blue polo shirt, and white Adidas tennis shoes. Dan tied his laces quickly with fast strokes. Each movement accelerated the laces, inciting an audible friction.

His final step was to fill his backpack. I watched him put the largest items in the back, the smallest in the front. The final step: inserting the brown lunch bag. It crinkled loudly, but I enjoyed the sound. Prepared for the day, Dan threw his backpack onto his shoulders in one single motion as he walked out of the room.

Now alone, I rolled over in my bed to go to sleep. But only seconds later Dan strode back in. I realized the light was still on, but I stayed still, holding my breath. He walked directly to his bed and reached under the blue lamp shade. It clicked off, and as the light left the room, he whispered “Have a good day, buddy.”