Morning Is BreakingPosted: September 2, 2011
It’s still dark, not yet six in the morning. I sit at the computer, the dog asleep on the floor beside me. On my other side, the window is open, blinds pulled halfway up. I know there’s a neighborhood out there, but I cannot see it. The sound of crickets, lightly chirping, filters in and lulls me. My coffee is cooling, but I don’t want to walk downstairs and refill the cup.
The cup: Four Down, ’80s to Go, from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette years ago. The font is too small to read. It has to do with football. In the picture with the article, someone has the ball and is running — he has on a black jersey, number 82.
That was my boyfriend’s number back in ninth grade. Why do I remember these things?
I should be writing. Put your pencil to the paper and push it; don’t pick it up for five minutes; just write, I tell clients I coach. I need to follow my own advice.
Instead of listening to the music of crickets. Instead of reading the newspaper on a cup. Instead of drinking cold coffee.
Outside, the sky lightens. Orangeish color in the east, across the street, behind trees. The newspaper sits in the driveway below me.