Chorus
Icarus.
Wake.
The dream will never leave you; the details, the scenes, hell, the smells and tastes. You don’t have to write it down. It is a film reel, an encyclopedia of Polaroids imprinted on your brain.
Seek out the cold spots on your sheets with your fingertips, twist and bunch them up like clay, let that cool spill over you, but only for a moment; stay too long, and it’s back to bed.
Throw off the blankets, put on a robe and slippers (if that’s your thing), stumble down the stairs with one eye open, navigating by the morning’s gray light splashed with ribbons of pink and a pale, creeping orange that mostly lives in the window corners, highlighting dust and spider webs.
Turn on the coffee you set up the night before. Before you went to bed, you said, “I better get this ready now. I just want to walk downstairs and push the button. Grinding and scooping and filling up the pot with water be damned.”
And you kept your promise.
So push the button. Listen to the clicks of the water as it boils, to the still-sleeping people upstairs. Grin. Know you know what’s coming, what they’re missing. Cast a glance out the kitchen window. Walk outside and grab the newspaper. Scan the headlines. Appreciate the words. Listen to the crickets and morning doves and the rubber hisses against the asphalt of the far-off highway.
Head back inside.
Let your shut eye open, wince, and open it again. Invite the stirring light inside. Say: “I made coffee,” to entice it. Out loud.
Grab a mug and pour a cup. Hold it, smell the spices from the beans, salivate over the hints of vanilla and hazelnut. Sip. Let the warmth and goosebumps come. Sip again. Smack your lips and say, “Aaahhh.”
Walk outside to the lake’s edge, tabletop smooth and gray blue. Look at the forest on the far shore, at the low hanging clouds above it, the fog leaking through the treeline and onto the water like a beard. Squint and observe the apricot-colored flecks in the vapor, the strawberry-colored dollops pollinating the shades of brown and gray.
Watch the sky bloom. Smile like an idiot while a palate of lavender and citrus spills across it.
Hear the wind in the trees, the limited motion from such a distance that sounds like applause. Imagine the rustling branches are cheers. Watch the breeze dance across the lake, smile as it goes from a skating rink to a moving, breathing pool of splashes and froth.
Close your eyes again. Just for a second, acknowledge that this is more than the latest in a series of planetary rotations. Understand this is a good morning kiss. Know this can be the start of something brilliant.
Good to have you back, it all seems to say.
We missed you.
The dream will never leave you; the details, the scenes, hell, the smells and tastes. You don’t have to write it down. It is a film reel, an encyclopedia of Polaroids imprinted on your brain.
Seek out the cold spots on your sheets with your fingertips, twist and bunch them up like clay, let that cool spill over you, but only for a moment; stay too long, and it’s back to bed.
Throw off the blankets, put on a robe and slippers (if that’s your thing), stumble down the stairs with one eye open, navigating by the morning’s gray light splashed with ribbons of pink and a pale, creeping orange that mostly lives in the window corners, highlighting dust and spider webs.
Turn on the coffee you set up the night before. Before you went to bed, you said, “I better get this ready now. I just want to walk downstairs and push the button. Grinding and scooping and filling up the pot with water be damned.”
And you kept your promise.
So push the button. Listen to the clicks of the water as it boils, to the still-sleeping people upstairs. Grin. Know you know what’s coming, what they’re missing. Cast a glance out the kitchen window. Walk outside and grab the newspaper. Scan the headlines. Appreciate the words. Listen to the crickets and morning doves and the rubber hisses against the asphalt of the far-off highway.
Head back inside.
Let your shut eye open, wince, and open it again. Invite the stirring light inside. Say: “I made coffee,” to entice it. Out loud.
Grab a mug and pour a cup. Hold it, smell the spices from the beans, salivate over the hints of vanilla and hazelnut. Sip. Let the warmth and goosebumps come. Sip again. Smack your lips and say, “Aaahhh.”
Walk outside to the lake’s edge, tabletop smooth and gray blue. Look at the forest on the far shore, at the low hanging clouds above it, the fog leaking through the treeline and onto the water like a beard. Squint and observe the apricot-colored flecks in the vapor, the strawberry-colored dollops pollinating the shades of brown and gray.
Watch the sky bloom. Smile like an idiot while a palate of lavender and citrus spills across it.
Hear the wind in the trees, the limited motion from such a distance that sounds like applause. Imagine the rustling branches are cheers. Watch the breeze dance across the lake, smile as it goes from a skating rink to a moving, breathing pool of splashes and froth.
Close your eyes again. Just for a second, acknowledge that this is more than the latest in a series of planetary rotations. Understand this is a good morning kiss. Know this can be the start of something brilliant.
Good to have you back, it all seems to say.
We missed you.
