A lawyer of my acquaintance posted pictures of a stunning scene this morning, a gorgeous waterside vista taken in some exotic port.  His caption encouraged us to join him in a round of the familiar song from that childhood show which we all recall.  It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. . .

I drift into my kitchen and warm a cup of coffee from yesterday’s leftover pot.  I measure out a third-cup of gluten-free granola and pour unsweetened almond milk over the cereal.  Rummaging in the silverware drawer, I find the sterling silver baby’s spoon with which I eat breakfast every morning.  I like the feel of it in my hand.  I cradle the bowl in the crook of my left arm with its still-weak hand.  In a few seconds,  my crystal mug (Sheldon’s crystal mug, left here by Abbey, thank you very much) sits on the table in the breakfast nook next to the little bowl of cereal.  I straddle a sturdy wooden stool and glance around me.

Yes, Dick Bryant.  It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

No boats grace my view, but my little plants reach towards the light. I find that just as pleasing.