Sunday, April 26, 2015

A Honeysuckle Morning.

I walk into the kitchen, barefoot.
My feet collect dirt and dust, but I don’t mind.
I am happy.

The smell of honeysuckles fills the house, visiting each room in oceanic waves, parading the house like the Guest of Honor.
The window is wide open and the morning breeze is crisp, clear.
I feel safe.

A look over the shoulder and a warm smile.
A look that says, I know you.
Being known is not as scary as it seems, sometimes.

I sit at the counter and let my elbows lean in to this sacred space.
These early hours are quiet and so are my thoughts.
I feel like I am the only one awake in the whole world, besides her.

Her muscle memory comes into play, body informing the mind.
Shuffle left, pick up plates.
Shuffle right, open the oven.

Watching this dance every morning in the kitchen gives me hope for the simple.

I think of these beginnings, these fresh starts to my day, and I think of the color white.
White counter tops.
White floors with dirt tracking in from outside.
White teeth from her welcoming smile.
White refrigerator door, opening and closing with grace.

When the first word is spoken, it is like a heavy rock slamming into the calm riverbed, fish scurrying about in every direction.
Nothing but pure interruption to my calm state of mind.
It was bound to happen some time, I guess.

The white colors become tainted with brown- things get messy every once in a while.
Words spoken into blank spaces and the day officially begins.

There would always be the next quiet morning to look forward to, the next steady riverbed with fish swimming at strategic angles and deer standing nearby, overlooking the scene with the elegance of a mother checking in on her children hours after bedtime. Trees swaying, birds silently gliding over the water’s edge.

Everything stands frozen in time and no one is waiting on anything, no person or event demanding attention.

White space.
Elbows in.
Smell of honey.
The kiss of the morning breeze.


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