Sweet morning air on my porch feels good against my sleepy face.  I stand at the steps, watching the stillness of the neighborhood as the sun rises behind me.  I breathe, deeply, in, out, thinking about the events of the day that stretches before me.  I contemplate the noteworthy suicide of a beloved comedian yesterday, and the lingering sorrow which his family will wear like an old sweater years from now.  I shake off the tattered remnants of the mourning garb from my brother’s suicide, still with me, though threadbare now and more often falling away to reveal the gossamer threads of my more delightful memories of him.

Our boycat wanders to the porch and gives me a look suggesting that I have been derelict in my obligations to him, eyeing the empty food dish.  I lean down, pet his head, and snag the paper from beneath a rocking chair where the carrier has thrown it.  I draw in another long pull of fresh, clean air.  Then I go inside, and the day accelerates, with all of its possibilities, and all of its hope.