Morning Time

6am. Water and a waffle soothes the gnawing in my belly. A rhythm is set by the ticking of the old clock; the wide-eyed sleepy moon dial disappears as the smiling sun winks from beneath the circular brass plate.

 The early birds begin their whistling conversation. Someone stirs upstairs. A little body drops from the top bunk with a boom and the waking presence is marked by a flush.

I sit curled up in my favorite green chair, wrapped deep in a winter white wool blanket. I watch the dawning sky through the long panel of windows that open onto my back patio. It’s a simple sky today… muted greys and sleepy blues. The glossy leaves of the skip laurels bounce as birds flit on and off the dark branches. A little brown bird head twitches in nervous jerks– peering in the window at me.

The light rises. My eyes rest on the dozen fingerprints marring the windows. Little hands and noses have left marks on the glass. I contemplate the location of the Windex. Under the sink? In the laundry room?

The fingerprints make me smile. The dancing bushes and rising light settle me firmly into this March morning. The center of me solidifies, and I breathe in the life that is mine.

Pen down. Legs unfolded. Blanket discarded. The list of this day tumbles out in hours upon hours of teaching and smiling and rehearsing in front of me. Wake up lazy, lazy one. There are eggs to scramble and lunches to make and sleepy nighttime dreams to consider.

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