Morning Routine

Sam woke up before his alarm told him to. He counted down the minutes before it sounded off by staring at his ceiling.
It was still hours away from dawn; the sky was black-blue and flecked with stars. Sam could see the synthetic glow of streetlights offering up their haze of light to the heavens.
Sam gathered up his fresh clothes, folded neatly on the seat of his chair, and crept as silently as he could towards the bathroom. The wooden floorboards moaned at each step. Sam clenched his teeth at their cries.
In the tranquil silence of the morning, every sound is unexpected and piercing. Even speaking to himself, Sam barely made the words; he simply formed his lips and exhaled their sounds.
The words he spoke were individual and from-the-hip; mostly curse words. He spoke when he spilled his precious coffee-grounds. The early morning and the heightened awareness of silence made him clumsy. Pots clanged against one another. Spoons were dropped. More sighed curses.
He placed his rolled oats and water in a pot on the stove, set it on low, and went into the bathroom to shower. He soaped his body, rinsed. He lathered his face and shaved off his morning beard. He put on his clothes carefully; slacks, collared shirt, suspenders. He pulled on his wool socks and pushed them down, sscrunching them about his ankles. He finished by pulling a thick wool sweater over his head.
Sometimes Sam hated his routine; the same thing, each and every day, sometimes he did not know why he bothered with it every day.
There is the idea that routine is a prison; it can be. At least in prison there are regular meals and showers. Sam felt clean and put together.
Sam ate his breakfast, placed his dishes into the kitchen sink (doing his best not to strike metal against metal) and left for his bus.
It was cold. He pulled the sleeves of his sweater out past his hands, clenched them in his fist and thrust his cozy and encapsulated hands into the pockets of his heavy coat. His breath froze as it left his mouth.
Sam had Pillars of Familiarity, markers that he encountered on his walk. There was a middle-aged man, bald, black spandex pants, who ran past every morning. An old woman who set up the patio tables at the corner deli.
Sam’s favourite Pillar was the patisserie.
Even in the very early hours of the day, the bakers were hard at work. They were surprisingly young, in their twenties (students, or perhaps just passionate about food). Dressed in their street-clothes, red aprons dusted with flour. A young woman, long hair tied back, placed massive cinnamon buns into the display. They joined the ranks of other baked goods; butterhorns, danishes, muffins. In the back, another young woman and a man worked with some sort of dough.
Sam gulped the warm, thick, sweet, butter-infused air as he walked by. Delicious.
As he neared the bus stop, he saw another regular. The fellow was very tall, he was wearing a baseball cap, with a hood thrown over top of it. In his right hand, he held a cane, which he leaned on very heavily. His right leg was crooked at the knee; the limb seemed to flex and bend as he put weight on it.
Sam wondered about this man’s story. Where did he come from so early every morning? The man had a rough appearance; sloppy clothes, steel-toed boots. No education, he worked hard for his living. He definitely wasn’t on his way to the construction site. He was in no condition to work, so he must be unemployed.
Sam imagined that this man visited a hospital, or a specialist doctor, who studied his yielding rubber leg in an attempt to help him become normal and functioning again. Weak bones? Damaged knee?
Sam arrived at his destination. He left the bench for someone elderly, or tired, and stood on the sidewalk. He pulled a book out of his pocket and began reading. He waited for his bus to arrive.