Category: Writing

The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The storm door squeaks open and double squeaks shut. The carpet cleaners are about to start.

The Summer night chirps, chirps, buzzes and chirps. It’s not hot, but the air is as still as though it were. Some nights, we give ourselves permission to be quiet – to not carry on in the days winding arguments and worries. In doing so, we begin to listen, we begin to hear.

A busy mind in the early morning flits, jumps and swings wildly about: jobs, apartments, cleaning, purging, travel, finances, interviews, writing, not writing. In the dawning sky – no clouds and one bird. This should be the meditation, the clearness of the mind. For a moment it is. For a moment it is.

After the winds sweep away the smoke-colored clouds, the sky breaks open to light blue and vivid peach with gold on the horizon. Only the tops of the tallest trees shimmy and blink in this morning breeze.  A note on a scrap of paper amidst the table’s clutter reads, “miles of desire.”

It’s early. The air in the house is still. The only noise is the hum of fluorescent lights and the soft whir of the computer fan. It’s early. It’s too quiet. I open the sliding door to hear the high-pitch whistle of the night – to give movement to the moment. It’s early.

A soft breeze cools my face. The coffee steams in the morning sun. In a book of poems, I underline the lines: “It’s mornings most that I miss / the holding of hands.” I play with substitutes for the second line: the city buzz, fog on the lake, the butterfly’s lift, your smile.

Three candles glow. The night is slow. The phone blinks notifications in the dark. Tucked between melancholy lyrics about loss and waiting springs a song of hope. This wine pairs well with summer’s nighttime chirp. Fireflies dance at the rooftop’s edge. Tonight, I’m waiting on the moon. Tonight, I’m finding my redemption.

One bird in the morning dark, a Northern Cardinal sings alone. Soon, others wake and warble – joining the low-hum heartbeat chorus of crickets and katydids. In this slate blue light, a Gray Catbird bleats a long why. Are there birds in the city where I am going? Will they sound as sweet?

A heart with a hole in it. A T-Rex head. A rabbit running fast, ears pinned back. The cloud drifts, shifts. A rock. A hamster about to do a somersault. A Fudgsicle. The stick / tail disappears. A jellyfish.  A fancy-tall glass mug of hot chocolate. A formal mouse about to bow. Gone.

The horizon blushes just above the tree line. The sun will be orange in today’s debut. The mug on the table filled with paint brushes reminds me to pack a box of art supplies: empty canvases, paints, a mug of markers, and a mug of brushes. To one day paint a sunrise.   

Sun floods the view to the west, pouring through the open-air dining room. Men sit alone at the bar – spaced apart as though they were at urinals. They stare at their phones or at the TVs above. One stranger shares with another that in high school he banged the owner’s sister. Men.

The dishwasher I forgot to run last night sings its song: knock whoosh knock, knock whoosh knock. There’s a rhythm to the mechanical. One could walk, shake hips, sway and groove to this sanitizing beat. That is until it stops and gurgles, drains into the kitchen sink and then picks up again.