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The Paris Review - Mogera Wogura
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"
Mogera Wogura
Hiromi Kawakami
Issue 173, Spring 2005
Let me tell you about my mornings.
I’m an early riser. Most days, I wake up even earlier than my wife.
If the sun has risen, thin rays of light filter down through the cracks in the ceiling. I just lie there for a while, gazing up at all those rays of light trickling in.
No light appears on days when it’s cloudy or raining, even if I wait. On the rare occasions when it snows, the room seems faintly bright even before dawn.
It’s warm inside my futon, but the tip of my nose is cold. I want to rush into the bathroom right away, but I have a hard time making myself leave the futon.
After a while, my wife wakes up. She goes off to the toilet before I can manage to get up. My wife is a good riser; no sooner is she up than she’s cleaning the house and setting the pot on the fire, humming all the while.
Eventually I get myself ready, and by the time I start making the rounds, checking up on the humans I picked up the previous day or the day before that or even earlier, a bright red fire is blazing in the fireplace, water is boiling away in the whistling kettle, and the whole room is fragrant with the wonderful scent of toast. My wife works fast.
The humans I’ve collected are in the next room.
Most of them are sprawled on the floor. There are tons of futons and blankets and pillows in there. Very few of the humans ask us if it’s all right to use them. Some burrow down into the heaped-up blankets as soon as we take them into the room. Some push aside the humans who are already stretched out on the floor and snuggle up inside their"
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