I want to tell you that it’s silent just before the sun comes up. Mostly, it is. It’s quiet in a way where there are only the barest of noises that I’m accustomed to. The grinding brakes of municipal vehicles and the soft, but urgent chirps of birds and the rhythmic footfall of fellow morning warriors.
I know how to navigate in the slimmest of light. I know how to steer around rain drenched puddles and rancid streams left by sanitation trucks. I avoid anything pile-like that could be an animal carcass (rest in peace or pieces, if you will) and tread carefully through piles of leaves.
I only have in one earbud for fear that I will miss something. A signal. A warning. A something.
Though there is nothing to miss, not really.
It’s before the time of the morning when stop signs are ignored and red lights are blown. Few are out and fewer are angry and aggravated and late. Yet. They haven’t shattered their favorite coffee mug yet or dropped coffee grinds between every crevice of their tiled kitchen floor. They may not have sweat yet, or raised their voices, or contemplated lack of sleep.
There is a smell that hangs heavy in the air- dew and dawn and hope. Spring brings with it the scent of new blossoms and grass and sprinklers that were once covered in snow and ice. In the summer it’s the smell of asphalt holding onto the warmth of the day long beyond its time. Winter is clean, sanitized. Sometimes you can catch the fragrance of an oft used fireplace or cinnamon branches woven through door wreaths. Fall is spice and curled, drying leaves and the rank odor of team sports and exertion.
There’s a hope that seems to pervade the air. The kind of optimism that comes with amnesia- moments where I forget, how desperately unhappy people are, and rage filled, and disappointed. I forget how much we hurt each other lately. Always. I forget about my bad decisions and faulty judgment and all the ways in which I’ve broken my own heart.
I try and remember lyrics and silently murmur words in the dark that are close and closer and not close at all.
I ignore a twinge in my knee and the darting pain behind my eyes- signals of prematurely arthritic knees and too little sleep and too many worries. Worries that I won’t contemplate now.
Now I will think of the way the budding sunrise paints a swoosh of silvery purple just above the irregular line of suburban homes that are compliant and unmanageably different. Different in a way that’s perplexing for some and cozy for others and familiar for me. I will think of my small apartment that waits for me- freshly brewed coffee and a steaming hot shower and a robe, soft with age and wear; uneven rolled sleeves and handwritten notes in the pockets. Bone broth. Color-safe shampoo. Pumpkin creamer.
I think of piles of books I have yet to read and the way I move past them in the blackness to sporadically pick up a discarded mostly clean t-shirt and a sports bra that assuredly requires washing. I think of how it feels to run my fingers down the spines, imagining what it might be like to read the titles with my finger pads, like some magical form of braille and intuition.
I think of Geraldine and Amelia Bedelia, sleeping in the corners my one room, green leaves curling into themselves, dirt saturated and earthy.
I work hard to bring myself present. I chart my cadence and feel a trickle of sweat journey from my hairline to my clavicle, down to my cleavage, if you could call it that. I don’t. Call it that. Small bits of rounded pale flesh, pressed together under the influence of lycra and spandex and materials that are mostly unpronounceable.
I want to be more in my body and less in my head. I spend so much time there. In the recesses of my brain- where I think about this dystopian existence we are living in and how I feel at home in space where I am undervalued and overlooked. I think often about the balance in my retirement account and my gums that are battered by frantic brushing and thoughtlessness. I think about electing to go gray prematurely and maturing into a human that cares less about the wrong things and more about things that matter.
I consciously try and bring to mind safe spaces. Places that make me feel tended to and cared for and interesting. I think about late night text messages with a quilt pulled up to my chin, spare threads tickling my jawline. And also, midnight whispers in a room that isn’t mine but I know like it is. I think about stories told in confidence that are ordinary but also, extraordinary in their uniqueness and emotional reverberations.
I think of all the ways in which I want to change and have changed and also, remain stuck. I think of people I want to stay molded to, to absorb their love and energy and kindness. I think of the barnacle like humans that cause suffocation and drag and damage.
I drift in and out of presence and present and endeavor to modulate my speed and my emotions.
A tender looking rabbit crosses in a shadow in front of me and I slow, breathing heavy. We observe each other, both scared and wary and bold and exposed. My chest feels heavy, suddenly. I blink hard, willing the moisture away from the corners of my eyes.
“Hi,” I say, feeling insane and friendly in the gentle way that seems fitting of conversations with unspeaking creatures.
I don’t imagine a response back. I’m sane, just tired. Right?
I start again. One two, one two, one two, one two.
The sun is peeking out on the horizon now, a half oval of some unnameable golden hue. I’m meant to be home soon, I think, and pick up my pace. Gently. I am gentle with my body now, now that recovery is lengthier and more involved and sometimes uncertain.
By the time I arrive home, I’m ready. For something. For nothing. For absolutely everything. Soon.
I’ll be ready, soon.
X
L.
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