Morning quiet
I woke up extra early this morning for some reason, and have been sipping coffee and reading web logs while listening to the slow rain patter down outside. It’s been a couple weeks since there’s been any precipitation here — the last time was snow, even — and the brightening grass will appreciate the moisture. Just now I went out to pick up the morning paper from the front walk and the rain and chill in the air took me somewhere else for a moment, a time and place I miss.
Years ago my job had me traveling to the Pacific Northwest on a frequent basis, multi-day trips every six or eight weeks. The corporation endorsed Saturday night stays as a means of reducing airfare so often I would linger over a weekend, visiting one of my sisters who lived in a small community outside Seattle. Being west by two timezones meant early wake-ups for me, before anyone else had arisen, so I’d wander through the house to make coffee, elicit a surprised mmrrr! by touching a sleeping cat, and take my cup to go out to wander through the yard or sit on the back steps in the dawn chill. It was quiet on those mornings with no one else around except birds singing their good mornings and a kitty stretching by my side. Everything was full of dew — walking through the grass meant wet slippers — and the air smelled green and fresh, often a welcome relief if I had flown away from winter.
After an hour or so I’d hear noise from inside the house, the clattering of pans and small voices chattering to their parents. Time to leave my solitude and return to the family, time to have a roll or crepe and scoop up a small girl to snuggle and giggle with in a big comfy chair.
It was a special atmosphere for me, having the chilly dampness and greenness outside and the warm being an aunt-ness inside at their house, and I don’t think I ever properly conveyed how much it meant to be welcome there. Those days are long gone, of course, and there will be no replication of them, so this is my belated thank you for such a sweet memory.