Time changes definitely influence my get out of bed schedule. I sleep on my side, look out the window, see the subtle notes in the sky which you cannot ignore that says night is done and dawn approaches. It’s all over, whether you slept or not, here it comes. Because of the “pruning” efforts of our realtor, there are fewer birds here who herald the dawn. I recall hearing early peepings last year and asked why why why. I miss them now. With the time change the sun dips its morning hand into my room earlier and stirs me over like an ingredient in an orange glass bowl: Get turned over whether you like it or not, this is where you’re headed. I am headed into the sunrise bowl now made of soft blue, lavender, pale gold. I put on a couple of layers and walk down to the beach, hoping the cat I babysit won’t wreck the house while I’m gone. I walk past bunches of umber seaweed that are unbeautiful knowing if it were July they’d already be shriveled, buried in the sand and blown away by now. It’s been a low tide morning each day with the moon behind me, her light as conversational as it is in my 3 AM bedroom. The low tide leavings show me little stones that look like walnut meats, something you could put in a brownie batter. I stopped my walk short because B was there. I am not comfortable seeing him right now and maybe he feels the same way, shown by the way he exited to the path back to his apartment as I approached that little bit of beach.
B is a fixture here, morning and night. His life is storied and fascinating, but one that I am not at liberty to share here. One thing I can tell you is that his best friend and brother was Mako, his Bernese mountain dog. Mako was the mayor of Willoughby Spit. Mako left us earlier this week, and I can still feel his heavy body laying on my legs, rolled over, wanting love and a treat. Who doesn’t remember seeing Mike and Mako walking the Spit those early mornings, looking for sea glass? Everybody knows Mako and B in their own way. He was the benevolent mayor of the Spit, and his loss is ours, this gentle giant. I walked the Spit this morning and saw B alone and wondered what he was thinking, how he was feeling. It’s not much of a stretch. I don’t want to project how he feels right now because it’s not my place to suppose how a man feels when his best friend is gone, but I have a good idea that it’s as raw and wounded as the day I had to put my Lexie down. Perhaps he feels relief that his companion is no longer suffering and knows he will always be at his side when he walks down the dune trail to our bay. My prayers and hopes are with B and Mako, and everyone whose life they touched. Mahalo, and sunrise.