Writing in the morning.

Something rare happened. I woke up at 6:45 AM awaited for the beloved nephew to arrive because I am the only one available now in the family to watch him at the ungodly hour. When I descended from the basement where my bedroom currently resides to begin the daily ritual of opening up the house I had noticed what peculiar weather we’re having for the month of August.

The wind was gusty, the clouds low bellied and grey; sweater weather. A cool 57 degrees lingered in the house which reduced the swelling of the wood window panes and doors from yesterdays humidity. An urge rose up inside of me when I begged the front closet door not to creak and I could hear the soft wind chimes from the front yard, I wanted to write. I looked at the sky a couple of more times out the big picture window, a book in hand and knew that today was the perfect day.

Tea brewing on the stove. Grandpa and nephew sharing blankets on the couch in the center of the small living space. Auntie vigorously typing away on her laptop at the table. This is how I wish most of my mornings would start. Here at the table is where I’ll appreciate this morning even more. Let the aspirations reign.