It’s always a gift waking an hour before sunrise. Some mornings are rote and uninteresting, while others are a conscious running away from my bed because I cannot take another minute lying there in a void or in the presence of terrible dreams. Waking at 2 in the morning is rarely a good thing.
I pulled on my leggings made of penguin skin, or so it seems, for it can keep out the hardest wind, the coldest morning. I pulled on flannel and a hoodie and made way for damp sand and a sun I knew wouldn’t be right where I left it.
The Corgi boys were tussling, cute piles of black and blonde fur, their dad sitting still nearby. Crone was walking her three: Great Dane and two Vizsla. One is pregnant and tired (or stubborn) so she leaves her Crone to come sit with me and scratch her back and her butt for a little while. I offered to hold her leash while she walks the other two, but… she’s determined to keep her three-pack walking. Otherwise, all eyes are on the east. We are waiting.
Well, maybe not the lobster boat (near) or the small cruise ship (far), and Mister Dante who sits on the patio, pale legs propped on a chair now because his heart surgery changed everything. Crabs cleaned their burrows, no precipitation forecast for quite a while. There are no fishermen dancing with their nets this morning.
The sun rose not in an orb, gracefully clothed in magenta. He was orange and fiery and misshapen through the clouds like mashed potatoes squeezed through toddler fingers. Why did I feel I needed to take my sweatshirt off, hot already? A trick of the mind.
Mister Determined has his luggage packed, and he canes his way slowly down the patio. His wife (nurse?) will be far behind, carrying the rest of their bags and they won’t be back for weeks. I wonder, where do they go? Meanwhile, I wonder if (or when) the cat across the way will forgive his person for letting her guest dump his orange hood on his windowsill. Oh… she’ll pay all right.
With characters’ “names” included, I feel the initial stirrings of caring about them. Naming things does that, I’m learning, even if we don’t see the significance right away. I passed a garden in early August, tended by men in rehab, a place called Wheelhouse. I wondered what grew in the garden and finally asked a manager today. His answer brought the garden to life. I love the evolution of your mornings in these posts, knowing how significant the small things eventually become as the days unfold. The “mashed potatoes through toddlers fingers” was magnificent. Totally original.
Thank you. Thank you for sharing that garden. I needed it. We all do, really.