Mornings 7.20.2013

She lies in bed scared to open her eyes. If she opens them they will come. So she lies still, so still she isn’t even sure if she’s breathing. She has to be breathing though or she wouldn’t be alive. It had been a long night of tossing and turning. She just couldn’t get a good night’s sleep anymore.  Mornings used to be so very different. Rolling out of bed at 11am, some coffee, a nice magazine or book to read, or heck she might even catch the tail end of Price is Right. Things are different now. Not different in a bad way just different. Now she wakes up around 6:30am, quickly gets dressed, makes breakfast while listening to the sounds of her home. Happy sounds, laughter, feet, barking, purring, mornings are certainly different now. Mornings are amazing in a new way. She learns so much about herself and about her little ones. Mornings are the best because everyone has slept well, everyone is full of energy and ready for a new day. Mornings were once a favorite for sleeping; now they are a favorite for celebrating family.

“Mom?”

“Mom are you up?”

Darn she must have opened an eye… Pancakes it is, let the fun begin…

Mornings 07.19.2013

The day started in the brunching hour for us.  Remember that, Mountain Man?  We’d slave hard at those those eight hour second shift jobs just to have the time pass us quickly by.  See we could never really be apart since the start.  

My hand on your chest you arm around me tight.  You know that faded grass green fat-corduroy armchair we both sat in after work?  The one we fit  perfect in together if I sat on your lap just right?  The one we preferred over the naugahyde slip n’slide love seat? That’s the chair we’d end our nights in. Those budding and blossoming nights of our passion blooming into more than just that.  

You know that faded grass greed fat-corduroy armchair that I sat in in the mornings? The one I’d smoke my mind away in and listen to the smells of my breakfast being made in the closet kitchen by the egg poaching king? See we could never really be apart since the start. Even the hallway made me ache for you.

Now that faded grass green fat-corduroy armchair sits facing the Whetstone on the other side of the drop off from Canal and I realize...The turns and twists of the building blocks of our lives have been much like the Whetstone and that armchair.  The brook has swelled and it has dried and the armchair has seen much better days, days of compassion and good company.  Not like the rains and piss it sees now down at the bottom of the drop off.

One thing's for sure though. The faded grass green fat-corduroy armchair is still there.  The Whetstone is still there. In the swift curves and changes of the brook we see our lives reflected. The brook and the armchair are still there. No matter who or what comes and goes we will still be here. See we could never really be apart since the start.

Mornings: 07.18.2013

A lot of times it's morning by the time I finally fall asleep. So it doesn't really matter what time I wake up to see my first light of the new day. The routine is always the same:

Bleary-eyed I reach for my phone to see if she contacted me during the night, or read the poem I messaged her on Facebook. My heart has a hopeful pulse, but I prevent a tear when I realize that she has not indeed sent any communication in return. At this point, I may try to fall back to sleep and see if going back to my dreams of her works to improve my chances of a text when waking again in a couple of hours. But most likely I won't fall back to sleep. Instead I move on to check my email and rub the eye snots out of the corners of my eyes if it seems that anything is important enough to read. If I wake up after noon, that spam account is quite full of funny emails for breast implants, penis growth supplements and Russian brides.

When my head says I'm ready, I sit up,  I think of her, I stand, and walk over to the sink. I think I've been using the same old salsa jar for my morning water ritual for almost two months now...not sure if I've washed it too many times over those months. The water thing has really helped for reals; it's actually nice to look in the mirror lately and see myself shrinking (but I guess that also comes from the lessening of late night drinking, well, all the time drinking). I notice the gray proliferating its way down my chest with each day though. I think she notices how trim I'm getting and how much my body and the glow radiating forth from my soul have become much brighter lately. Immediately following the pounding of a quart of water, I slosh into the bathroom for the other morning ritual, the one that is not brushing my teeth.

I sit for a bit and play Words With Friends laughing at how my little brother is a high school principal to whom I constantly put a whooping. Then maybe check the news of Facebook from the night before and see my uncle's inspirational message of the day, perhaps a grumble about mornings from so-and-s,  or excited anticipation of another so-and-so having the day off of their 9 to 5. I look at her picture on her profile and miss not being next to her as I arose from the couch where I slept. (I think I've only slept in the bed twice in as many months. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to steal a night with her by my side, in which case we share my bed and I'm happy as the cutest little pig in the most clean and beautiful slop.) 

Her devilish grin slightly held back, knowing eyes peer out from the tiny screen into mine. The photo is black and white, or that sepia shit or whatever.  It hardly holds back the colors I know she throws out to the world around her, how her golden brown, copper, and orange locks look constantly tousled as if just having a fresh toss in the hay. Hmmm, what's the weather supposed to be like today? Let's get off of Facebook and out of the bathroom now. 

Breakfast might be the most important meal of the day, but my appetite has been so small lately. I always feel like eating breakfast food when I wake up, though that doesn't mean I ever eat them. I love pancakes and omelets and breakfast sandwiches, but the motivation to make food...to try and eat it, is totally not there. Both the ideas of taking in less calories and having no one to feed just make me lose my drive. It's so beautiful out, yet I stay inside.

I go sit on the couch and decide how to try and not think of her today. I try not to think of the why of her absence. That's far too heavy a meal this early in the day. Lists of errands and the attempt to "get a real job" can take my mind off of her. Morning can bring a ray of hope if I know I may get a chance to see her or hear her voice. Mornings are a time when I realize the day is already shot if that is not an option. Mornings are not a specific time of day; they are a feeling. The tone of my day is set by the time I have shaken off yesterday's hopes and the dreams in between my last waking reality and this moment. My mornings so different when she is here...

...when she was here. 

MORNINGS: 07.17.2013

I like to watch you sleep, 

but in the summertime 

I only allow myself a moment's indulgence.

The cool, dewy air of early morning

is a fleeting thing, 

and I must seize it.

The sky a soft, backlit curtain,
hanging between my mind
and the difficult questions to answer,
the difficult problems to ponder,
the difficult realities of all the other hours of the day.

My mind awash in grey, transparent light,
under the sunless sky. 
Empty.

I work, quietly,
and I don't think about the light spilling in.

It is a sweet, ephemeral treasure,
that bleak and perfect landscape...
like watching you sleep.

Mornings: 07.16.2013

I was never a morning person. Then, she came into my world one summer morning. I had no choice but to rise early. To take in everything the earliest hours had to offer.

Like an apology for the previous day’s onslaught of heat and humidity, summer mornings bring a calm, cool, stillness. A deep breath before a busy day.

The forecast called for a scorching humid day ahead. She wanted to go to the farm. She wanted to play. To feel the grass and the sunshine. We woke early, and sent off on our journey before the sun could control the day.

Dew still clung to the ground. Shadows were long, the light crisp. We could feel the heat fighting for control over the residual night air. We found refuge in the still cool shade. Next to the even cooler brook.

She danced, she played. She chased bubbles. She laughed.

I sat, I watched. I blew bubbles. I laughed.

I was never a morning person. Then, she came into my world.

MORNINGS: 07.15.13

Mornings are about stillness punctuated by little bird feet tapping on the roof of the water tower. They land and bounce their feet in three beats. It sounds like a muted version of a finger tapping on a can of beer to keep the fizz down before cracking it open. Mornings are looking up at the warped photo booth picture of him and I when we were just kids. The strip of photos is taped to a psychedelic painting that I tore out of a magazine back in Ypsilanti, Michigan. It hangs from a piece of chicken wire that I poked through the paper and dangled over the blue hook. First thing in the morning, I look across the bed at that photo strip, and briefly flash on that lusty and insecure first or second or third trip to Montreal. I forgot to date the back, but our faces and poses have evolved tremendously since then. After I look at the picture, I look over at the face of the beautiful sleeping man, who was such a boy back then. I smile remembering that though it feels brand new and ancient, we grew up together, and into ourselves in front of and because of one another.

Mornings are a slur of unscheduled ritual. Smoothies and sprawling, sweet or savory breakfast: one that requires chopping and the de-stickering of fruit, gnawing on fleshy pits and toasting almonds, or one that requires heating up the oven, slicing potatoes, warming tortillas, pressing garlic, and shaking on some vinegar and spice. Mornings are about decisions, my favorite kind of decisions: grinding coffee and brewing it so the whole house, even the wooden walls jolt awake, or steeping some tea with torn up lemongrass, basil, and mint to more subtly welcome the day. Mornings are emptying the dishwasher while listening to podcasts. They are for stretching and splashing my face with cold water. They are for writing in cozy clothes, cuddling with the windows open, and staying naked for as long as possible.

Mornings are for stoop sitting, future envisioning, and new bee hive observing. They are about dead heading the droopy shriveled leaves from the big arrangement of succulents and making sure the chickens have food and water. They are about fog and one leg freed over the top of the comforter with one arm dangling off the side of the bed. Mornings are about him reaching around for a rogue Chapstick tucked somewhere on the side of the mattress, and reaching for a big mason jar of water and gulping it down. Mornings are for stretching my palms towards the ceiling, looking up at them, and remembering when Satja told me I had starfish fingers. They are about reaching for my phone, and then remembering that the evening before I told myself to stop beginning my mornings looking into the lives of others, and outwardly validating my own. I want to begin my day in quiet, because it’s sacred, and for now, it’s mine all mine. 

Mornings I see dust and spider webs and piles of incense ash and papers. I see socks and pants scrunched at the end of the bed. Mornings I see computer cords strung out and slung across floors and over record crates and around the thick legs of the futon. Mornings are for confronting late night choices and setting new intentions, and then forgetting about them and losing myself in the moment or in a habit. Mornings are for remembering my dreams and spitting them out with my eyes half closed and my face tattooed with a map of my sleepy imprints, while pressing myself against his warm back. Mornings are for mourning another day gone to memory,  another day gone to seed.                                                             

Mo(u)rnings 07.14.2013

“It's for you,” Megan's mom said as she passed the phone to me over the breakfast table. The cord stretched and uncoiled, bouncing lightly off the stack of pancakes. My grandfather had been in the hospital for a week, unresponsive after a stroke-- a reality that didn't quite sink in until I heard my mom sobbing through the receiver.

“Is it grandpa?” I asked, sure of the answer.

“No,” she said, “It's George. He's been hit by a car. I'm coming to pick you up.”

I saw him right away when we pulled into the driveway, wrapped neatly in a paper bag, resting motionless on the picnic table. I had been crying since the phone call, but a new and overwhelming sadness choked me as I opened the car door.

“Don't open the bag,” my mom warned, “You don't want to see him like that.”

I did open the bag, but I didn't look. I slipped my hand inside and squeezed his paw. I held him to my chest and rocked him back and forth for an hour, in a way that's not so different from how I have rocked babies to sleep since. Later that night, I buried him in the garden, lacing the soil with wildflower seeds.

Penelope, George's mom, sat beside the door late into the night, waiting for him to return home. Even at 13-years old, my empathy was crippling, so I scooped her up and brought her to bed with me, crying for both her sadness and mine. I held her close and kissed her head, whispering “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry” into her ears until we both fell asleep.

A few weeks later, the wildflowers erupted into patches of fiery reds, yellows, and purples. We kept a vase of them, freshly cut, on the dining room table. In the late mornings, as the sun grew fierce and blistering, Penelope took to laying belly-up in the garden, as if she knew she could find him there. On breezy days, the daisies and coneflowers rocked back and forth, nudging, cradling, and purring her to sleep.