Ten.Two Thousand, Four Hundred & Eighty-Seven
Breakfast club.
There’s always this stretch of morning—right around the time when the day begins to break—when the birdsong is so loud I can barely hear my audiobook.
Swath of golden light on the peonies and the painting. Stops my breath.
Waiting and waiting and waiting.
Remember that you can just take a walk.
Kids PB & J and a container of fruit. A little heavy on the J today.
The echo of the ball in an empty gym. This hour is my own. Thinking while also trying not to think.
Of course, I feel compelled to clean and reorganize the fridge instead of reading two chapters for Psych, writing that email, and sending that letter.
Leftovers.
She asks if I’m ready for Yosemite. Ready? No. Excited? Yes. But, definitely not ready.
