Dawn

The room is still dark when I wake, no telling why my body at last decides to return to its stirring before dawn. I decide to  take advantage, carry my laptop up to the kichen without turning on the lights, make coffee in silence. As the shapes of camouflaged deer come into relief on the field outside the window, I scrounge around cupboards and cabinets to find candlesticks and candles, light them while the coffee brews.

I am taking deep swims into nostalgia lately, getting cozy in warm moments and flickers of delight. On the page, a new character absorbs the insights, builds herself a personality where the outside world may have its dangers, but her spine was given everything it needed to withstand. We try to give our children everything we did not get. We try to be the parents we needed. 

The sun rises at last, bathes the field in a quiet November yellow, dots the mountain tops in pink swaths and puffy clouds. Cars cross the field on their way to work, the distant valley hums with traffic, with people starting their day. I finish my coffee, reluctantly look at my own to-do list. How many layers do you think one would need for a quick morning walk before reality really needs to make its entrance? 

There are dustings of snow on the mountains. The sunlight at last breaches the ridges. You wonder what the morning looks like on your old pistachio farm, in your cabin in the mountains. This life contains multitudes. You've space yet to add more.