Most days I rise to the sound of my neighbours. Their voices enter my fading dreams like characters in a story, pulling and pushing me in and out of two worlds.
It is the normal conversations of a morning. Filled with goodmorning greetings, breakfast, laughter and don’t do thats. The exchange of their words bounce off the walls and through the air finding their way down to me. I live on the ground floor. They live above me.
There is something reassuring about mornings where your neighbours’ banter wafts through your concrete walls and interweaves into your day. A reminder that there are so many other people who call this big, wide world home. That I am a sharer of all I have.
Sometimes I bump into them at my door as I leave my house. Grandmother awkwardly giving me way as she pulls the pram her daughter is pushing. The baby inside quiet and peaceful.
I smile. And I want to say no need for the awkwardness. I know what you had for breakfast. But I simply say hello and scurry off into my day carrying little pieces of them with me. Because the truth is they, at some point or another, merge into my world.