Morning Is Breaking

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.


One Comment on “Morning Is Breaking”

  1. Agatha Nolen says:

    How true! I sat down to write a few evenings ago, the topic was Shame and Guilt from a conversation with a friend. I knew exactly what I wanted to say, and nothing happened! The dog wanted to go out, I needed to return a call to a friend, etc., etc., etc. But I also think it is important that we remember our first boyfriend’s football jersey number, and take pleasure in an orange sunset. Some things aren’t convenient and distract us from writing..but that is the pleasure of living: not knowing exactly what is going to happen from moment to moment and being okay with the anticipation!

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