(I got tired of the pink.)
I’m sitting at the laptop today, at the kitchen table looking outside instead of at the paneled walls surrounding my cubby. It’s school vacation; my daughter is sleeping down the hall, and I am contemplating a cup of coffee, which will remain a dream unless I get up and grind some beans. But right now it is quiet, so quiet, that the thought of the grinder’s chatter seems slightly obscene so I’m procrastinating; looking out the sliding glass window of the family room to the damp backyard. If I’m honest about it, there is always noise, a car driving down our busy street, the drone of an airplane circling Logan, the tap of my fingers on the keyboard, the refrigerator cycling on and off, the faint ticking of the family room clock. Winkie the cat’s tags click against her food dish downstairs and outside, just barely, there’s a bird singing “Phoebe! Phoebe!
It’s April in New England--the calendar says spring, but anyone raised this far north knows that the word is optimistic. I’m still dressed in blue jeans and fleece, and wishing that the heat would come on, so I wouldn’t feel guilty sneaking the thermostat up. I’ve given up on planting bulbs; after 23 years of home ownership, the squirrels always win, so out back there are few obvious displays of the warming of the seasons. The buds though, stand straight on the Rhododendrons and the fuzzy leaves of a foxglove that has volunteered itself flop in a crevice of ledge in the back garden. A wash of green is starting to flow through the grass, and if I lean to the left, daylilies leaves push lanky fingers up from the earth by the patio.
It’s 8:09 on a Tuesday morning, and just for a moment I’m taking a breath.
After that though, I’m making the coffee.