Rise & Shine
Life goes on, in spite of our best efforts.

It was mornings that were the hardest.

Blue light, cool air; the sound of the surf in the distance, undiluted yet by traffic, too early for even the earliest commuters; the tentative notes and trills as first one bird, then another, then another, woke and began its vocalizations.

She padded downstairs to make tea. Waiting for the water to heat, she leaned back against the kitchen counter, her elbows cooled by the smooth surface. At her feet, soft eyes in a wrinkled black face watched her movements with interest, the round head tilting at her every move.

“You want something to eat?”

At the familiar words, the dog’s small body tensed, curled tail ticking and ears pricking with hope. She turned to get the bowl and the bag of kibble out of the cupboard, hearing behind her the excited clicking of nails on the tile floor. The noisy clatter of kibble as it settled in the bowl, a brief whoosh of the tap to cover it with water, a small whimper as she squatted to set it on the floor, and breakfast was served.

She paused there briefly, elbows on her knees, her hand stroking its back. ‘You’d think this were his last meal, the way he hoovers it down...’

The microwave dinged, and she rose quickly, feeling summoned, foolishly obedient to the machine, and reached for the shelf holding tea, coffee, filters, artificial sweetener. Today seemed like a Lady Grey kind of day. ‘Almost out—better put that on the list,’ knowing she’d forget again, no one to remind her.

She opened the paper envelope and pulled out the teabag, breathing in the quick release of scent: sharp, sweet, grassy. Opening the microwave door, she plopped the bag into the steaming water, then picked up the cup and closed the door behind her as she turned to leave the kitchen, the dog trotting contentedly at her heels now that it was no longer starving.

She wasn’t working today, the Monday before the Fourth of July, and the morning stretched before her with lazy promise: a little writing, a little yard work, a little—a very little—housework.

A quiet day.

Back upstairs, out on the balcony, she hooked a toe under the rung of the chair and pulled it out enough to squeeze between its seat and the table, setting the mug on the table to her right, and opening her laptop. The dog climbed up onto its pillow next to the chair and circled, bunching it to get just the right shape, then plopped down with a heavy sigh, its work done for the moment. As the computer hummed to life, before she sat she paused to stretch, reaching up into the lightening sky and surveying the town spread below her.

Down by the shore, far enough away to sound poignant and romantic and welcome, its harshness filtered out by distance, the morning train announced its arrival at the edge of town. The buildings near the beach were already tinged with a rosy glow, and the sea, still grey-blue in the slanting light, sparkled in the widely curving bay. The faintest of mists rose from the lapping surf and softened the islands barely visible on the horizon. In the swimming pool under the balcony, a flying insect of some kind dipped for a drink and set the clear surface rippling.

‘Paradise,’ she thought, and her heart clenched at the word, as much for the memory it brought as for how automatically it still came to her mind.

And on the heels of that memory, like the train still barreling through the sleeping town, thundering and clacking on its rails, benign murderer of any that might stumble into its path, came all the rest of it: how the house used to be quiet and peaceful, but not silent; how she used to carry two cups upstairs to his welcoming face; how they would sit side-by-side in the morning light, he with his crossword puzzle, she with her book. How morning passed into day, the see-you-later kiss as she left for work, an afternoon call to plan dinner, the glass of wine handed to her with a toast as she stepped back into their private world in the evening. The crack in that world one January day at the local hospital and the slow, thorough shredding of their future by an indifferent medical system.

The little dog raised its head from its paws to look up at her curiously as she stood there too long with her arms stretched above her head. The movement broke the spell, and she pulled herself back, out of the past, back to the still-new equilibrium she’d managed to find, back to this day of solitary pleasures, back to her glowing laptop and the faithful creature at her feet and the strength she garnered from the few in her life who knew how to give it. She pulled in a long, slow breath of cool blue air, held its sweetness for a moment, and released it, mist wreathing her head, like the mist off the ocean, like the breath of the train as it disappeared from her view around the far edge of the bay, like the memories that shrouded her heart.

She sat and pulled her laptop closer to her. Morning was over—the day would be easier.