Beep . . . beep . . . beep, the alarm sound I always regret hearing forces me to roll over and reach out to silence the clock, as my fingers move across the small table to locate my glasses.
Tired from going out to dinner the night before, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen where I turn on the light and start the coffee. I sense the presence of my dog, roused from sleeping in his chair to follow me in his stealth-like way, waiting patiently by the door as I untangle the leash and lead him outside where the early morning sky welcomes me with its bright array of stars. I bask in the quietness, the chill of the air, the pause before the rush of the day.
Once inside, I reach down into the large bag of dog food, filling the scoop to pour into the dish. This same order of events happens daily though I am often the one who takes the weekend shift.
I then pull a standard white ceramic cup out of the cupboard, remembering momentarily how colorful the Christmas mugs were, already placed in the back of a neighboring cupboard to take their rightful place on the shelf above the coffee maker sometime after next Thanksgiving. A larger cup is what I need but it is too early for decisions so I take what I now have filled with coffee and enough cream to turn it the color of milk chocolate and walk back to my work room.
Online I read my lenten devotion and begin to peruse the newsfeed when I stop--abruptly.
The dog has gotten comfortable and gone back to breathing deeply, as I turn off the light and crawl back into my bed.
It is there my now wide-open eyes attempt to readjust to the dark room, unable to comprehend the coaxing my mind is doing to override recent events and lure them back into a state of slumber. I will have plenty of time to ponder the inescapable reality that the clock chosen to awaken me in time to go to the Farmers' Market is apparently no longer functioning correctly. Instead of sounding the alarm at 5 a.m., it went off at 3 a.m.
And I already drank almost an entire cup of coffee.
Tired from going out to dinner the night before, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen where I turn on the light and start the coffee. I sense the presence of my dog, roused from sleeping in his chair to follow me in his stealth-like way, waiting patiently by the door as I untangle the leash and lead him outside where the early morning sky welcomes me with its bright array of stars. I bask in the quietness, the chill of the air, the pause before the rush of the day.
Once inside, I reach down into the large bag of dog food, filling the scoop to pour into the dish. This same order of events happens daily though I am often the one who takes the weekend shift.
I then pull a standard white ceramic cup out of the cupboard, remembering momentarily how colorful the Christmas mugs were, already placed in the back of a neighboring cupboard to take their rightful place on the shelf above the coffee maker sometime after next Thanksgiving. A larger cup is what I need but it is too early for decisions so I take what I now have filled with coffee and enough cream to turn it the color of milk chocolate and walk back to my work room.
Online I read my lenten devotion and begin to peruse the newsfeed when I stop--abruptly.
The dog has gotten comfortable and gone back to breathing deeply, as I turn off the light and crawl back into my bed.
It is there my now wide-open eyes attempt to readjust to the dark room, unable to comprehend the coaxing my mind is doing to override recent events and lure them back into a state of slumber. I will have plenty of time to ponder the inescapable reality that the clock chosen to awaken me in time to go to the Farmers' Market is apparently no longer functioning correctly. Instead of sounding the alarm at 5 a.m., it went off at 3 a.m.
And I already drank almost an entire cup of coffee.
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