It’s 6 o’clock in the morning, and the world outside the open windows is black as ink. I’ve run three times this week, with my first steps beginning later with each run. I don’t want to come across a skunk in the dark.
I started a garden journal last winter to help me draw my way through the dreary months. A beacon of hope in each entry was the times of sunrise and sunset: the day grew longer each time I sat down with my journal. Now, I haven’t written an entry since the equinox. The darkness claims a few more minutes on each end of the night so that its now dark as late as 7am. I’m going to need to rearrange my entire schedule soon so that I can get a run in when there’s light.
A cool breeze puffs through the open window. One of our cats is snuggled into a fuzzy blanket across the room on the couch. She has her back to me, and her little triangle ears poke above the edges of her blanket nest. I’m surprised our other cat isn’t on my lap; she often climbs onto me in the mornings as soon as I sit down and put the lapboard on my lap for my morning rituals. She snuggles against me like a baby, looks up into my eyes, and purrs her rattly purr.
Books and notebooks and pens and a crumpled tissue lay before me on the chaise lounge. This is my pre-workday time to read and write. I’m excited because I start a new chapter my daily reading in the Little, Brown Handbook today: Case of Nouns and Pronouns. I don’t know what that means, and I’m interested to find out.
Our son is asleep. Our daughter is at swim practice. The time and temperature are perfect for silence: there is no hum of air conditioner, heater, or refrigerator. The ceiling fan whirs overhead. The clock ticks. The lap cat I mentioned, Tubbles, drinks water from her bowl. Now she’s looking at me from across the room. Now she’s walking over here.
Now she’s on my lapboard, laying across my hands. Now she’s looking up at me with her cute little furry face. Time for me to go.