Most days, I awaken early. With spring filtering through our home, the window also carries sounds of nesting birds greeting the approaching sunrise. I listen to their twittering, wondering what they say to each other. Sleep well? Yes, thanks, you? Or is it only we humans who have such difficulty resting that our success or failure engrosses us?
I struggle to wake my hands, my legs, my brain. The joys of abnormal neurology! On the dresser, three or four bottles of medication beckon. One gets those nerves to fire; one inhibits a premature heart beat. Another quiets the rage of the shingles virus; a fourth combats bronchial spasms. I shake them into my hand and thank God for pharmacology.
One or the other of us gets the coffee brewing and fetches the newspaper. Yogurt, oatmeal, flat little crumpets with sunflower-seed butter — all make their way to the table and two newspapers get opened. My husband reads the Wall Street Journal and works the soduko. I browse the local rag. We share “Pearls Before Swine” and “Dilbert” in the comics section. More coffee, dear? The mundane conversation without which my morning would be incomplete.
I wrap a light scarf around my neck and sling the heavy black bag over my shoulder. In it, I have placed my tablet and docking station, a yogurt, and the cluster of accoutrements which would provide distraction or support in the event of long stretches of inactivity. A notebook, a pen, my inhaler. A clean handkerchief.
I slide behind the steering wheel, pull the seat forward and adjust the mirror. My son has driven my car and I realize, again, that he has reached the height of manhood. I switch the radio to NPR, and signal for the move away from the curb. Morning, Brookside, Year of the Christian Lord, 2014. I roll my neck a little, stretching the muscles, and begin the trip to work. I am smiling. It’s going to be a fabulous day.